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BEAUCHAMPE 

I 

OR 

THE KENTUCKY TRAGEDY 





A SEQUEL TO CHARLEifONT 


By W. GILMORE SIMMS, Esq. 

n 

AUTHOR OF “tHK PARTISAN” “ M KLLl C H AM P k” “ KATHARINE WALTON”— 

‘^TH£ FORAYEKS” “ THE SCOUT” WoOJ>CRAFT” “gUY RIVERS,” ETC. 


“Maid of Lvil&n,” said Fingal, “ white-handod danghter of Grief! a cloud, marked with 
streaks of fire, Is rolled along thy soul. Look not to that dark-roSsd rt^uou ; .ook not to those 
meteors of Heaven. My gleaming steel is around thee, ths terror of th> foea/*.... 

“I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced the side of Corm¥ai-:rua43. Nor did Foma- 
Bragai escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood. WLy> then, daughter of heroei,, 
didst thou wake my rage?” — Ossian. Cat/i. Loda. 


NKW ANP REYT8KD EDITIOX 



) > ^ 


V 


\DRAFf y 




^ AUG 8 1 339 







Nfto iork: 

ARMSTRONG & SON, 

714 BROADWAY. 

1882. 


A. C 




Entered, according to Act of Confess, in the year 1856, 

Bv J. S. REDFIELD, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court c ( the United States, in and for the Sontben 

District c New York. 





# 




< / < 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


“ Beauchampe ; or the Kentucky Tragedy,” is the sequel 
to the story of “ Charlemont.” The story supposes some 
little interval of time between its opening, and the close of 
its predecessor. The connection between the two is suffi- 
ciently intimate, though the sequel introduces us to new 
persons — the hero among them — who do not figure in the 
first publication. I do not know that anything farther need 
be added by way of explanation. In regard to moral and 
social characteristics, the preface to “ Charlemont” will 
suffice. A few words, perhaps, in regard to the materiel^ 
msy not be amiss in the present connection, to prevent mis- 
takes, and save the critic from that error, which he occa- 
s.onally makes, of substituting his own point of view for that 
of the author — an error which usually results in a mere game 
f cross purposes between the parties, which is profitable 
tither. The reader may find or fancy some occasional 
aiiierences of fact and inference, date, place, and period, 
-De.,ween this and other narratives relating to Beauchampe, 
and the famous Kentucky tragedy of which he was the un- 
happy hero. But, as a man of sagacity, he will naturally 
discard all bias derived from any previous reading, in 


8 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


deference to that which is now submitted him. Ours, in 
the language of the quack advertisements, is the only gen- 
uine article*. We alone have gone to the fountain head for 
our materials. We have good authority for all that is here 
given. We can place our hand on the record at any mo- 
ment, and we defy all skepticism. Newspapers ar"5 lying 
things at best — they have told sundry fibs on this TBry 
subject. Pamphlets — and our melancholy history has 'i' 
duced several — are scarcely better as authorities; — aven 
the dusty files of the court should make nothing against the 
truth of our statements where they happen to differ. At 
all events, the good reader may be assured that our disa- 
greements are not substantial. They affect none of one 
vital truths of the narrative. We agree in all wholesome 
respects. Our morals are the same — our results very near- 
ly so ; and if we have made a longer story of the matter 
than they have done, it only proves that we had so muon 
more to say. We need say no more by way of preparative, 
and we forbear saying anything by way of provocative. 
Fall to and welcome ! The fare is solid enough, and, as 
for the spices and the dressing — say nothing in disparage- 
ment of these, if you would not incur the maledictions of 
the cook. We Anglicise in this sentence a homely proverb, 
which would scarcely tell so well in the original. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RUINED HAMLET. 

Time does not move with the less rapidity because bis 
progress is so insensible. His wings may be compared to 
those of the owl and other birds who fly by night. Their 
feathers are fined off to such exquisitely-delicate points, 
that they steal silently through the air, as swiftly as stealth- 
ily, and strike their object without alarming it. So with 
that “ subtle thief” whom men personify as Time. Ho 
moves like the pestilence, without beat of drum, without 
pomp of banners, with no pageantry of state or terror, 
which might warn the victim to prepare his defences. He 
fans us to sleep as the fabled vampire, with dark wing 
slowly waving over our slumbers, while his sharp tooth is 
penetrating the vkal places in our bosoms. 

Five years have elapsed since the period of those melan- 
choly events, which furnished us with the materials for our 
village-chronicle of “ Charlemont.” The reader of that 
legend will not require that we should remind him of its 
sorrowful details. Enough that we tell him that its inhab- 
itants are all dispersed — scattered variously in remote re- 
gions — some silent in the grave — all changed ; all under- 
going change ; and that the village itself is a ruin ! The 


10 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


vicissitudes of life have told in various ways upon all the 
parties to our former story. Some of them have been kept 
wretched ; others, made so ; while others again, have held 
a sensible progress — onward, upward — to prosperity and 
honorable distinction. Perhaps, we shall gather something 
more definite on this head from the discourse of the two 
travellers, whom we behold alighting from their horses, and 
seating themselves upon one of the hills by which the val- 
ley of Charlemont is overlooked. 

Here, on this very spot, more than five years before, two 
other travellers had paused to survey the natural beauties 
of the village, and to feast their eyes upon the rural aspect 
of its innocent society. At that period, it was compara- 
tively innocent. There was peace within its borders, and 
Plenty sat beside its winter fires, fully solaced by Content. 
But the gaze of those two travellers brought blight upon 
several of its sweetest homes. One of the two, a good old 
man, went on his way, dreaming with delight upon the 
simple beauties and felicities of the little hamlet. He little 
dreamed that the other, his favorite nephew, had surveyed 
it with far less loving, yet more rapacious eyes — tliat he 
would steal back, alone, in disguise, and penetrate the little 
sanctuary of peace, hiding among its flowers, as a serpent, 
and leaving taint in the place of innocence. The reptile’s 
mission was successful. The home was polluted, the hope 
destroyed, and the little village was no longei\the abode of 
peace or happiness. Now we see that it is in ruins — that 
it is deserted of its people — that its old familiar homes are 
solitary, and sinking fast into decay. We may not say that 
all this melancholy change was the fruit of this serpent’s 
visit, but who shall say that it was not ? Who shall meas- 
ure the suffering and loss to a little rustic hamlet from the 
shame and sorrow which defile and degrade one of its 
favorite families. The shadow upon one sweet cottage- 
home casts a darkening atmosphere, in some degree over 
all around it, and lessens the charm which was once enjoyed 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


11 


by all in common, and takes from the beauty of the general 
landscape. Where the resources of society are drawn from 
natural and simple causes, we all share in the loss which 
proves fatal only to the single individual. 

But, in place of the two former travellers, whose inaus- 
picious gaze was thus full of mischief to the universal beau- 
ties of Charlemont, we see two very different persons. They 
occupy the same point of survey ; they both gaze from the 
same eminence which erewhile unfolded the charm of a 
most lovely landscape. One of these strangers, as in the 
former instance, is a tall, finely-built, noble-looking old 
gentleman, whose white head declares him to be fast ap- 
proaching the ordinary limits of the natural life. He was 
between sixty and seventy years of age, though you would 
arrive at this conclusion chiefly from the snowy whiteness 
of his hair, and the serene benevolence of his countenance, 
showing that the more violent passions were now wholly 
overcome, and not from any appearance of decrepitude. 
On the contrary, his bearing is that of a man still vigorous 
in bone and muscle. He carries himself erectly, alights 
promptly from his steed, with the freedom and ease of the 
practised hunter, and there is still, in his movement, th^ 
evidence of very considerable physical power, if not of en- 
ergy. His eye is still of a bright and earnest blue ; his 
cheeks are but little wrinkled, nowhere much seared by 
either suffering or time, and the ruddy hue which clothes 
them declare equally for health and vigor. 

His companion is a young man who might be twenty-five 
or thereabouts. In respect to frame, size, bearing, he might 
be the son of the former. He is of noble figure and stat- 
ure, of firm, dignified, and easy carriage, and wears a fine, 
frank expression of countenance. The face, though with- 
out one feature like that of the senior, is also quite a hand- 
some one, marked with great serenity, though of a gravity 
which seemed to declare the presence of emotions of a 
nature much more serious than any of those which are 


12 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


caused by thought and study. Though full of intelligence 
and a fine spirit, the expression is shadowed by a look of 
sadness approaching to melancholy. There is a fixedness 
and depth in his eyes — an intensity of gaze — which pen> 
trates you with a sense of suffering and mystexy ; suflering 
which has been overcome, but which has left its traces, as 
the fire which has been extinguished, yet leaves tlio scorch- 
ing proofs of its wing upon the roof and sides of the bright 
dwelling over which it once has swept. His mouth, in its 
rather close compression, confirms the story of his eyes, 
and the beauty of the well-cut lips is soinewliat impaired 
by the sternness resulting from this additional evidence of 
trial, and vexing passions. The mystery which you see 
written in the young man’s visage is one that invites to the 
study of that character, which a single glance persuades 
you must be worthy of examination. His movements are 
deliberate, his voice is low in tone, quiet, gentle, musical, 
yet capable of great and sonorous utterance. There is no 
sign of feebleness or indecision of purpose in tlie move- 
ments which are yet slow. On the contrary, every step 
which he takes is significant of strength — of powers that 
only wait the proper motive, or the sufficient provocation, 
to declare themselves with commanding, and even startling 
effect. As he stands awhile, after fastening the two horses 
in the thicket, and leaning slightly forward, gazes down 
intently upon the valley slope, dotted with the decaying 
cottages, you read in his look and action a further secret 
in which you conjecture a something, which links the fate 
of the lonely hamlet with his own fortunes, and confirms, 
with a deeper meaning, the sorrowful tliought, and sadden- 
ing memories, which loom out, darkly bright, in all the 
lines of his strongly-expressive countenance. 

The old man is already seated upon the cliff and looking 
forth in silence. The young one joins him with quiet move- 
ment, and takes his Beat beside him. And thus they sat 
together, for some time, without speaking. It would seem 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


13 


US it they enjoyed a communion of thought and sympathy 
— that neither needed to speak of reminiscences whicli were 
cnerislied in equal degree by both, and that, whatever 
*.nc cause of melancholy reflection, it was shared between 
them. 

A considerable interval of time, speaking comparatively, 
wa:. thus yielded up in silence, to sad if not bitter thought. 
At length the old man said : — 

‘‘ We arc lierc, again, William. It is the same, yet not 
the same. Nature is ever young. Trees, rocks, hills, val- 
leys — these rarely change. Here, without a single com- 
panion, as of old! yet how many of our old companions are 
about us. I feel tlie former life, if not the ancient feelings. 
Yet what a change. And five years have done it all ! 
What a brief period ! Yet, what an eternity !” 

The other did not immediately answer. When he did, he 
said musingly : — 

“ I see no sign of human life. I doubt if there be a 
single inhabitant left.” 

“ Indeed, it looks as if there were none. How strange 
is it, that, feeling with the place as w^e both did, and do, we 
should have so entirely forborne to keep up any communi- 
cation with it. We know not a syllable of the occasion of 
these changes. How strange that they should have been 
so altered ! Can there have been any epidemic here ? I 
have heard of none. The village was always healthy. 
The place is sweet and beautiful. The people were mostly 
in good circumstances, had few wants which they could not 
satisfy, and seemed happy enough and contented enough in 
these abodes. What was the sad necessity, what the vex- 
ing appetite which prompted their abandonment. Shall we 
descend into the valley and inquire further ? It may be 
that we shall find some lingering occupant in some one of 
the farther cottages. These are evidently abandoned. 
What say you, William ? Shall we feel our way once more 
along the old familiar places ?” 


14 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ All ! sir, with what reason ? Shall we behold anything 
more grateful in a nearer approach. Here, it seems to me, 
we can behold enough for melancholy thought ; and none 
other can we borrow from the associations with this place. 
You see yonder the ruins of my father’s house. It has 
evidently been destroyed by fire — the work, no doubt, of 
come passing incendiary. Yet, among these ruins, I first 
drew the breath of life ; there, I first enjoyed delicious 
hopes, which the same house saw blasted. My father and 
mother are wanderers in the far south, and — I had aban- 
doned them. I would see no more. I wonder at the 
strange anxiety which has prompted me to seek thus much ; 
to come hither, after so long an interval, merely to behold 
a ruin ! I might have known that I should gain nothing 
from such a survey, but the resurrection of mocking dreams, 
and delusive fancies, and foolish hopes — upon whicli, as 
upon this little hamlet — we may write nothing but the one 
word — ruin !” 

A big tear stood in the young man’s eye — a single drop 
— the outburst of emotions that even manhood, filled with 
noble ardor, and moved by great energies, could not utterly 
repress. And again a deep silence, for a while, succeeded 
to this brief dialogue. At length, the old man laughed 
Avith a subdued chuckle — mixed mirth and melancholy. 

“ Strange, William, that the hovel should so frequently 
outlast the stately hall and tower. Such is the process by 
which Time mocks at pride. Look, where my old school 
house stands as it did five years ago. There you see the 
roof, almost black with age, glooming out beneath the shel- 
ter of green trees. My favorite oaks, William, still stride 
about, like ancient patriarchs, spreading great arms as in 
benediction. Ah ! I could embrace them, every one, with 
the feeling of a son or brother ! How much do they recall ! 
It Avas under their sliade that we brooded over the chroni- 
cles of old Vertot and Froissart together. They have 
g^’own together in my mind with these old chronicles, and 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


15 


1 could fancy tlic knights of the temple and the hospital all 
pleasantly encamped beneath their friendly shelter.” 

How strange, sir, that the imagination should thus 
speak out with you, rather than with me. The sight of 
that wild retreat for our rustic muses brings me other 
images and aspects, which appeal only to the affections. 
My fancies, at the sight, bring me glimpses of boyish forms, 
that leap and run along beneath the shadows. Instead of 
the trumpets of chivalry, I hear only the merry shouts of 
boyhood, such as made this little valley ring with the gen- 
uine music of the heart in those happy, happy days.” 

‘‘ Music ! ah ! my dear boy, I little thought it so, 
when they made my ears ring too, with clamors, which 
made me pray, a thousand times, for the dreamy and sad 
silence, such as the scene affords us now. That I should 
now feel this silence so painfully oppressive, is more pro- 
foundly in proof than any other sign, of the terrible char- 
acter of the human change which the passing time has 
brought. Where are all these merry children now ? The 
memory of those clamorous shouts, and that happy uproar 
of boyhood, comes now with a sensible pleasure to my 
heart, and arouses it with a delicious thrill. And I, who 
bemoaned the fate which fettered me so long in this obscure 
hamlet — dead to the world, and wholly unfruitful — even I 
could be persuaded to entreat of Heaven that the season 
might return once more. I was not sufficiently grateful, 
my son, for the peace — with all its boy-clamors — of that 
rustic solitude. Now, that all is gone, and all is ruin 
which I see, I feel, for the first time, how very precious and 
beautiful was it all.” 

“You have made all this sacrifice for me, my father 1” 
said the young man, while his hand rested fondly upon the 
arm of the other. 

“ It was fit I should, William ; and you have more than 
requited me, ray son. But, in truth, there was no sacrifice. 
There was need of change — for me r.e f.T yen. My owe 


16 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


heart required it. I had grown a discontent. This unper- 
forming life of simple peace and rustic content, is not to 
be allowed to those who have burning thoughts in their 
brains, and earnest desires in their hearts. It is for such, 
only to snatch moments of this sort of life, as it were, for 
rest and refreshment after toils, and that they may recover 
strengtli for new fields of wrestle, and trial, and perform- 
ance. I had lived in it too long. I was rapidly sinking 
into all sorts of unbecoming dotages. I have grown 
stronger, and wiser, and better, from the change. I do not 
deplore it, though I may look with sorrow over the mourn- 
ful ruins of the once familiar and favorite retreat. It is, 
indeed, a melancholy spectacle.” 

“ And how very strange that so short a period should 
destroy every vestige of the life and pleasure of the place !” 

“ Shall we wonder, when we see how brief a term is 
needed here to substitute desolation for life, that the great 
cities of the past should leave so few vestiges — that the 
very sites of so many should be forgotten ? Were wo now to 
descend among the old thoroughfares, we should possibly 
lose our way, familiar as was once the path — we should 
find ourselves wondering at the decreased or increased 
length of distances, at the great size or the smallness of 
places, the measure of which seems to have been taken on 
our very hearts. We never think of the change in our- 
selves !” 

“ But the fate of the place is still so very curious a mys- 
tery. One would think, from what we knew, that every 
day would only contribute to its utility, and growth, and 
beauty. Here were health, security, sweetness, innocence 
— every possible charm — all that should make a village 
dear to its inhabitants.” 

Ah ! my son, but its inhabitants lacked the all-in-all, 
content. You, for example, to whom this peaceful dell was 
so beautiful, you were one of the first to leave it.” 

“ Yes ! But not willingly. I was expelled from it by 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


17 


cruel ueccssitics, a harsh and brutal fate. It was with 
no exulting desire that I left its sacred abodes. They 
refused any longer to entertain me. I was driven ruth- 
lessly from the sanctuary which denied me refuge any 
longer.” 

‘‘ And I am one of those who rejoice that you were so 
driven. The necessity which expelled you from the sanc- 
tuary was the mother of a glorious future. It brought out 
the manhood that was in you. It taught you to know yoLr 
strength and muscle — forced you to their exercise, and 
will crown your name with honor !” 

‘‘ And yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all that I am — 
all that I hope to be — for the restoration of that hope and 
home of boyhood, which I was thus driven to abandon.” 

“ No, Willie, you would not. This is only the sentiment 
of a passing mood, which you will not rationally seek to 
encourage. It is better as it is ! You arc belter as you 
are ; and, to-morrow, when you return to your duties, your 
performances — tlie toils you have grappled with so man- 
fully — the field into which you have so nobly sunk the 
shaft — you will feel how idle is the sentiment whicli seems 
so natural to you now. If this was the scene of your boy- 
ish sports and hopes, my son, you are not to forget that it 
was also the scene of your disappointments — your sorrows 
—your first strifes — your bitter humiliations ! AVould you 
go over that period of doubt, and strife, and scorn, and 
shame? Would you feel anew the pang of denial — tli^i 
defeat and disappointment of every youthful hope ?” 

“ Do not — do not remind me ! It is as you say ! And 
yet, sir, returning to the subject with wliich we began, hew 
strange that all should have abandoned the village. I was 
the cfdy involuntary exile. I was the only one whom the 
latcs seemed resolute to expel. Why should they fly also, 
and so soon after me ? Where should my poor old father, 
John Hinkley, and my mother, for example, find the motive 
for leaving the home where they had so. long dwelt happily, 


18 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and, in the decline of life, why seek an abode upon the 
Choctaw borders ? It could not be the love of gain ; they 
had enough !” 

“ You forget that your father had become something of a 
monomaniac. He followed the ministry of John Cross. 
Your departure, too, my son, had probably something to do 
with it. His stubborn pride of heart naturally kept him 
from making any admissions ; but I have no doubt he felt 
keenly the wrong that he had done you. The discovery of 
the true character of Alfred Stevens must have done a great 
deal toward disabusing him of his superstitions — for they 
were superstitions really — in respect to both of you. What 
does your mother say in her last letter 

“ They are well ; but she mentions, particularly, that my 
father never mentions my name, and avoids the subject.’’ 

“ A proof that he broods upon it, and with no self-satis- 
faction. Your departure, his, and that of the Coopers, are 
easily accounted for ; and did we know the secret history 
of all the other villagers — their small, sweet, deceptive 
hopes ; each man’s petty calculations, and petty projects — 
all grounded in some vexing little discontent ; there would 
be no difficulty, I fancy, in finding sufficient reasons, or at 
least motives, for the flight of all.” 

“ Still, sir, there seems to be a fate in it !” 

“ Why, yes ; if by this word. Fate, you mean a Provi- 
dence. I have no doubt that these sparrows are all, in 
some degree, the care of Providence ; and, whether they 
fall or fly, the omniscient eye sees, and the omnipresent 
finger points. Your error, perhaps, lies in the very natural 
assumption that mere place, itself, becomes an essential of 
humanity. These wandering hearts do not cease to beat 
with hope, because they no longer beat in the cottage of 
their boyhood. Their limbs do "^ot cease to labor, nor their 
minds to think, because they break ground and plant stakes 
in remote forests of the south and west. Mere locality is, 
after all, a very small consideration, in any question of the 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


19 


interests of humanity. It is the man that makes the place 
what it is or should be 

“ I am inclined to think, sir, thax wo something under- 
value the social importance of place. A population loses 
something of its moral when it wanders. It substitutes a 
Lavage wildness for domestic virtues.’’ 

‘‘ Granted ! For a time this is certainly the case. But, 
on the other liand, an old locality is liable to suffer from 
the worse evil of moral stagnation ; and the cure of this 
demands the thunder-storm. The extreme conditions usu- 
ally work out precisely the same consequences in the end ; 
and, in the case of society, the locality is altogether a sub- 
ordinate condition. My old trees, there, were very grate- 
ful to both of us ; but I became an imbecile under them, in 
the enjoyment of the dolce far niente — that luxury which 
has destroyed the very nation from whom we borrow the 
phrase ! And the same delightful condition of /^o/^-perform- 
ance, continued for five years, would have ruined you^ also, 
for any career of usefulness and manhood. And this 
would have been a crime, my son, as well as a shame. 
Neither you nor I, believe me, were designed for the sla- 
vish employment — however sweet — 

“ To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Nesera’s hair.” 

“I know not, sir, I know not! Fame is something — 
something charming and fascinating — having its uses no 
doubt ; and designed for the natural and gradual elevation 
of the race as well as individual. But the heart ought not 
to be sacrificed for the brain — the sensibilities and affec- 
tions for the genius. There should be a life for each, for 
all; and to surrender the one up entirely to the other, 
works dismay in the soul, and decay in the sympathies, and 
leaves ashes only upon the hearth of homo !” 

“ But why the sacrifice of either, my son ? Who says 
surrender the affections to the genius — sacrifice the heart 


20 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to the brain ! It is not the counsel of Milton. It is far 
from my wish that you should do so. Nourish both. The 
heart, in fact, the sensibilities, are the absolute necessities 
of genius. The brain, so far from demanding the annihila- 
tion of the affections and sympathies, actually draws con- 
stant food from their abundant sources, by which its own 
strength and vitality are cherished for performance. No 
intellect is in perfect symmetry unless it maintains a con- 
stant intercourse with the warmest human affections. It is 
altogether a mistake to suppose that they can maintain a 
separate existence, or that one can preserve its integrity 
without due co-operation with the other. The most health}/ 
genius is that which never surrenders its humanity. It 
may suffer disappointment — nay, agony — but it is in the 
very moment of the heart’s worst sufferings that the intel- 
lect is most needed, and it furnishes adequate help for sup- 
port and relief, provided the training of both has been com- 
mensurate to their mutual wants and necessities.” 

“ Ah ! my dear sir,” said the younger shaking liis head 
mournfully — “you forget my fortunes.” 

“ Do I? No, indeed ! I repeat, my son, that your for- 
tunes have been equally beneficial to your head and your 
heart. You mistake, altogether, when you confound a dis- 
appointment — the defeat and denial of a boyish hope — 
witli the annihilation of the heart. A hope and fancy ai-o 
repeatedly crushed out of existence ; but we should err 
very greatly to suppose that the life of the affections — tho 
heart — had suffered serious liurt. No ! no ! Believe mo, 
your heart is quite as sound as ever. What are the proofs? 
Ill my sight, tlioy are hourly present, if not in yours. You.: 
disappointments have saddened your fancies, but have they 
impaired your strength ? They have rendered your thoughts 
graver in line than is usual with your years, but have they 
not acquired in vigor wliat they may have lost in briglitness ? 
You do not play now with thought, but you can v)ork with 
it, as you never did before. You do not sport and trifle 


THE UUINED HAMLET. 


•21 


now with life, but you feel it as a circle spreading every*- 
where, connecting you with all the links of existence, ma- 
kl’ig you sympathize with all its pulses and vibrations, and 
sensibly lifting your mood to the contemplation of all its 
higher offices and duties. In short, you have made a sud- 
den spring from tlie dreaming, uncaring, unheeding, natu-'e 
of the boy — as it were in a single night — into the active 
consciousness of all the responsibilities, glorious thoug'n 
saddening, which belongs to a proper manhood. Now 
men possess real manhood only in degree with their capa- 
city to perform. Had you been still a dweller in Charlc- 
mont — had you gained the objects of your boy desires in 
that place, you would have sunk into the habitual torpor of 
the place. You would never have found out what is in you 
— would have been nothing and done nothing.” 

“ I might have been happy !” answered the other gloom- 
ily. 

“ No ! my son. You would have gratified a youthful fancy, 
and, would have survived it ! This is a common history of 
what is vulgarly called youthful happiness. What would 
have remained to you then ? Misanthropy. The graver 
necessities of the mind take the place very soon of its boy- 
ish fancies, and demand stronger food. Fancy is but the 
food of a thought just beginning to develop. It requires 
strong meat very soon after, and tills can be afforded only 
by earnest grappling with care and toil, and trial and pain 
— those angel overseers, whom God appoints, to goad the 
truant and the idle nature to its proper tasks. I repeat 
ti l at your loss in Charlemont is the most fortunate of all 
your gains.” 

“ Would I could think so, my father. Yet her image 
passes before me ever with so pleading a face. I see her 
now, as I have seen her a thousand times among those old 
groves ; treading those crags ; gliding, with eager and fear- 
less step down those precipices which conduct to the silent, 
sad, and beautiful tarn, where we were once so fond to 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


brood. In my mind’s eye I shall never cease to behold that 
beautiful yet mournful memory — two images, so unlike each 
other, of the same being ; one proud, and brave, and noble, 
like the eagle soaring up in the sunshine ; the other gloomy, 
dispirited, made ashamed, like the same brave bird, with 
wing broken, the film over his eyes, close fettered in a cage 
of iron, and with curious fingers pointing to the earth-spots 
on breast and pinion.” 

“ A pitiful contrast, in sooth, my son, and such as it is 
very natural that your imagination should frequently de- 
pict before your eyes. But both of these images will grad- 
ually fade from sight. A newer world will supersede your 
past ; new forms and aspects will take the places of the old ; 
new affections will spring up in your soul ; nay, fresh fan- 
cies will wing their way to your heart, and a nobler idea 
of love itself will possess your affections. The heart has 
resources not less fertile than the fancy. God has not 
decreed it to isolation. You will see and feel new plants 
of verdure suddenly appearing upon the waste places ; nay, 
the very heat and ashes of former passions prepare the 
ground for superior plants of more verdure, strengtli, and 
beauty. The time will come when you will wonder that 
you ever felt the pang and privation which trouble you 
now. Five years hence you will be unwilling to believe 
me when I describe, as I hope playfully to do, the fierce 
troubles of your soul at present.” 

The youth shook his head negatively, as he said — 

“ Impossible !” 

“ One thing is certain, William. You are now confes 
sedly one of the first lawyers in Kentucky. Our little world 
acknowledges your power. If politics were your aim, the 
field is open to you, and it invites you. Yet, five years 
ago, you were desponding on the subject of your capacity. 
Then, you had misgivings of your strength, and fancied that 
your powers but imperfectly seconded your wish. Your 
ambition was then regarded as the dream of a foolish van- 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


23 


ity, which was destined only to rebuke and disappointment. 
Look at your position now — behold your own perform- 
ances. It was but the other day, when Harry Clay said 
to me: ‘He is the most promising of our young men. I 
would not counsel him to politics ; yet, if he should desire 
that field, he will conquer in it. He has the steadfastness, 
the enlarged view, the industry, and the endowment, which 
will give him rank among the highest whenever he shall be 
disposed to fling off the mere lawyer, and embark on the 
troubled sea of politics.’ ” 

- “ In truth, a troubled sea.” 

“ Yes ; but so far a persuasive one to ambition, as, just 
now, it needs such a good helmsman for the ship of state. 
I counsel politics no more than our friend Clay ; but the time 
approaches when no man of mark will be allowed to with- 
hold his seamanship. Keep to the law for the present, and 
wait your time. I would have no son of mine — no friend 

— undertake state affairs of any sort till he is fairly thirty 
or thirty-five. A democracy is the very world in which to 
break down premature young men. It is the very world 
for strong men — naturally strong — who have allowed them- 
selves to harden into perfect manhood before they attempt 
a province in which the wrestle is beyond their strength. 
You are naturally too well endowed and too well trained 
to sink into the mere lawyer. You will never forego the 
nobler powers of generalization in the practice of a petty 
detail. The very troubles of your affections have thrown 
the proper burdens upon your mind ; and you will go on 
conquering, my son, until you have equally purged your 
heart and your understanding of all these delusions. You 
will forget, among other dreams of boyhood, the very one 
which has had such an effect, for good upon your fortunes, 
and for evil, as you think, upon your heart. The image of 
Margaret Cooper will fade from your fancy, or remain only 
as a study, in which you will be just as likely to wonder at 

{ your delusion as to cherish it fondly. There will come a 


24 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


season when your heart will open to a wiser, and purer 
and nobler afiection — when you will seek and find an objecl 
ol* attachment, vho will be more worthy of your love, and 
will be better able to requite your desires.’’ 

“Never! never! — no, sir, no! I freely tell you that, 
promising as are my social prospects now, honorable as is 
the reputation which I have acquired, grateful as the future 
promises to be to my ambition, I would gladly forego all, 
were I once more restored to that one hope of my boyhood 
— could I attain now, in her original purity, the one being 
who filled all my desires, and might have satisfied all my 
cravings of heart.” 

“ You think so now ; but wait. Five years have wrought 
the most wonderful changes in your mind. Another five 
years will work other changes, quite as wonderful, in your 
affections. The destiny before you will not be defrauded. 
After all, the heart of man keeps very much in the track 
of his intellect; and the charm that satisfies the one at 
first, requires in the end to satisfy the other. You will 
fjrget— ” 

Kei'e a sudden start and exclamation of the young man 
arrested the remarks of the aged speaker, who, the next 
moment, was confounded to behold his companion rise up 
at a single bound, and rush almost headlong down the hill. 
He called to him : — 

“ What is the matter, William ? What do you see ?” 

The youth did not answer, but, throwing out his arms as 
he ran, ho pointed to the opposite end of the valley, where 
following with his eyes, the senior caught a glimpse — but 
a single glimpse — of a female figure, in widow’s weeds, re- 
tiring from sight. In another moment the figure was hidden 
from view by the crags of the range of heights beyond. 
The young man, meanwhile, kept a headlong course, still 
downward, pursuing his way into the valley of the settle • 
ment, with tlie fleetness of a deer. 

“ Can it be Margaret Cooper whom he has seen ?” mur- 


THE ILUINED HAMLET. 


mured the old man to liiinsclf, as he slowly rose up, and 
prepared to follow, but more slowly, down the hill. 

“ Can she be here ? can she be living ? and how has she 
contrived to elude all inquiry ? If it be she, how unfortu- 
nate ! It will revive, in full force, all his wild anxieties. 
It will arrest him in the nobler course he is now pursuing. 
But no, no ! I have better hopes. God will not suffer this 
defeat 


26 


BEiUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 

The tive years of lapsing events which, in the career of 
William Hinkley, had brought him to distinction in his pro- 
fession, the esteem of society, the love and admiration of 
friends, had been productive of very different results to the 
woman he had once loved with all the ardor of ingenuous 
passion, and for whom, as we have seen, he still entertained 
emotions, if not affections, of the most tender regard and 
interest. She had sunk from the lieights of self-esteem to 
the lowest depths of self-abasement. She, the village- 
beauty, proud equally of her intellect and personal charms, 
had, in this to her dreary’ interval, been fettered in an ob- 
scurity as impenetrable by others as it was deep, dark, and 
humiliating, to herself. Of the cruel sorrows of this period 
it is impossible to make any adequate record. The gnaw- 
ing misery of hopelessness ; the consciousness of sin and 
weakness ; the bitterness of defrauded hopes, and aims, and 
powers ; the loss of name, position, love ; the forfeiture of 
all those precious regards which are so necessary to the life 
of the young, the beautiful, and the ambitious — these had 
worked their natural consequences, in the thought perpetu- 
ally brooding over the ruin, in which every flower of hope, 
and pride, and love, had been stifled in dust and ashes. 

Yet she lived ! She would willingly have died. She 
prayed for death. She meditated death by her own hands ; 
and it was the indulgent providence of God alone — by 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 


27 


almost direct interposition — that saved her from this last 
dreadful method of escape from the terrible soul-suffering 
of those last five years. 

Strange that she should thus live — with her pride, and 
all her passions, rendered mad by disappointment, preying 
perpetually upon her heart ! For a time, thete was a weary 
blank in her existence, in which she did not even dream. 
Her vitality seemed utterly suspended. When she recovered 
from this condition, which was meant as a merciful allevia- 
tion of her acuter sufferings, it was to endure the active 
gnawdngs of her grief. For another period, her life was a 
long spasm — a series of spasms — in which she was con- 
scious of no security from hour to hour — in which all in 
her soul was in wild uproar and confusion — storm and 
calm alternating ever — and no certainty of life or sanity 
for a single day. That was the period of her greatest peril. 
It had been easy for her then, by a single blow, to end the 
terrible liistory ; and a thousand times, during this period, 
did slie murmur to herself — 

“ It is surely not so difficult to die !” 

But they watched her ! The deed was prevented. She 
lived, and lived for another passion — darker even than 
suicide, and more deadly. To this she bent all her thoughts. 
To this she gave all her prayers. Shame, defeat, over- 
throw — the utter annihilation of all her ambitious dreams 
— tber^e brought her none of those humiliations of pride in 
which the prayer for grace and mercy find their origin, and 
rcali’ze the blessed fruits of penitence. The blow, which 
humbled lier for ever in society, had only wounded her 
pride, not crushed it ; only stung her brain to madness, not 
soothed it witl- a sense of feebleness and dependence, ma- 
king it a fit hoE?e for gentle thoughts, and subdued desires, 
and a strengthening humility. Her prayers, for a long 
‘ season, were addressed only to the gratification of that wild 
justice which infuses the savage soul with the dream of 
vengeance ! — 


28 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Being mortal still, [she] had no repose, 

But on the pillow of revenge ! Revenge — 

Who sleeps to dream of blood ; and, waking, glows 
With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst ! — ” 

There was but one victim. But the fates interposed for 
his safety — and her own. She was in no situation to 
gratify her desires. She knew not how to name — knew 
not where to seek — tlie spoiler of her happiness. She was 
a woman, and must wait her time — wait on circumstance 
and chance, and the favoring succor of tliat subtle demon 
whom she called upon in place of Deity. And he finally 
responded to her call. 

But there was a dreary interval to be overcome and en- 
dured. 

In this period, her whole person, as her soul, had under- 
gone a curious change. The fair, white skin became jaun- 
diced. The fine, dark, expressive eye had assumed a dull, 
greenish hue, and seemed covered with a filmy glaze. Iler 
frame became singularly attenuated, her limbs feeble ; she 
frequently sunk from exhaustion, and would lie for hours, 
gasping upon her bed, or upon the dried leaves of the for- 
est, in the shades of which she perpetually sought escape 
from the sight of human eyes. That she survived the long 
strain upon her faculties of mind and body, was w'onderful 
to all. Yet she did survive. 

More ! she gradually threw off the feebleness and suffering 
of the frame. She was again endowed with a noble hardi- 
hood of constitution. She had a proud, steadfast, enduring 
will. The very working of her passions, now concentrated 
upon a single object, seemed, after a certain period of pros- 
tration, to work for her relief. Gradually another change 
followed. Her skin became cleared. The jaundice dis- 
appeared. Her eyes became healthy in expression — 
bright as before — but not happy in their brightness; lu- 
minous, yet wild ; of a gloomy beauty, in which the whole 
fiice shared. She did not smile again, or, if she did, it was 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 


29 


ill a manner to mock the smile with bitterness. Her mind 
resumed its activity, though it still pursued what the mor- 
alist may well call an insane direction, fixed only upon a 
single object, wdiich seemed to supersede all others. For- 
merly, she had felt, and dreamed, and imagined, poetry; 
now she wrote it — wuld, dark, spasmodic fancies glowing 
in her song, which was wholly impulsive, not systematic — 
the effusion of blood and brain working together intensely, 
and relieving themselves by sudden gushes whicli w^cre like 
improvisations. 

It was sometime after she had reached this condition, 
when, one day, she declared her intention to revisit Charle- 
mont. Her retreat was only seven miles from this spot, in 
an obscure farm to which no public road conducted. 

Her mother somewhat wondered at this desire, but did 
not oppose it. They were both well aware of the change 
which five years had wrought in the fortunes of this once 
beautiful village. It had been productive of sore loss to 
them in money. They had sold their little cottage, under 
mortgage, and the purchaser had abandoned the property, 
leaving the debt unpaid. Something was said by Margaret 
of the necessity of seeing that the building was kept in re- 
pair, but the suggestion w^as only made as a sort of pretext 
justifying the visit. The mother very well knew that the 
daughter had another motive. Though by no means a sa- 
gacious interpreter of heart or mind, she yet readily under- 
stood that the proposed visit was the fruit of some morbid 
fancy ; but she did not see tha' any evil would result from 
suffering Margaret to indulge oer mood ; and, in fact, she 
had long since learned that opposition was by no means the 
process by which to effect her objects with her daughter, or 
to bring her mind into the proper condition in which it usu- 
ally regards the social requisitions as the natural law. She 
offered no objection accordingly. 

The little family carry-all — a snug, simple box, drawn 
by one horse — was got in readiness, the negro drivci 


30 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


mounted, and the girl departed upon her secret mission of 
sad thought, and melancholy re very, in a region which had 
been the source of all her sorrows. 

She sought the old cottage, penetrated its silent cham- 
bers, and busied herself for awhile in a search of closctn 
which seemed to afford her nothing. Her search led her to 
sundry bundles of old papers. These she pulled apart and 
examined in detail. From these she extracted some scraps 
which she put away carefully in her bag, and after this, she 
scarcely looked at the dwelling, which already needed the 
regards of locksmith and carpenter. 

How soon the favorite place goes to ruin if left to itself. 
There shall be a snug simple house, in which your heart 
first found its want, your soul its first speech, your dearest 
joy its first satisfaction, and five years after you have aban- 
doned it, it will be desolate — the lichen will glide over ita 
walls ; the door will fall from its hinges ; the shutter, the 
sash, drop to fragments. Shall time spare us any more 
than our dwellings ? 

Yet can he not utterly destroy ! 

The heart recognises a soul in the lonely and desolated 
ruin. There is a subtle spirit appealing to you from every 
corner. Nay, you will surely hear voices in the lonely 
rooms which call upon all the affections to restore, rebuild 
— return ! 

Poor Margaret heard these voices all around her. They 
startled her. They seemed to mock her fall — to depict 
the state from which she had fallen — to compare her own 
with the desolation of the scene around her. And finally, 
they spoke in the well-remembered tones of her betrayer. 
She fancied she heard Alfred Stevens close beside her, 
whispering his subtle eloquence — those snares of fancy and 
passion which he had so successfully woven for her ruin. 

And this voice lifted her into strength. Then she re- 
membered that she had an oath of vengeance ; and she went 
forth from the lonely dwelling, only half conscious that she 


THE J.VEXrECTED MEETING. 


31 


went, and almost heedless of her steps, she took her way 
up the rocky heights to the lonely tarn whither she had so 
often wandered with him. 

And the past returned to her memory, and filled her 
imagination with all its chronicles of mixed sweet and bit 
ter — pride and shame — and keen was the agony that fol 
lowed, and terrible the oath which she now renewed, of 
vengeance for the wrongs she had suffered and the degra- 
dation which she must perforce endure. She had no fu- 
ture, but in the accomplishment of this one terrible oath ; 
and she renewed it with fearful brevity and solemnity in 
the shadows of those towering rocks, above the deep dark 
waters of the silent lake — by the very scenes which had 
witnessed her overthrow, she called for witnesses to confirm 
her oath ! . 

And what a picture to mind and eye did she present at 
that moment — still young, still beautiful — of noble figure, 
commanding form, bright haughty eye, and a face gloomily 
lovely — as she stood forward on the edge of the precipice, 
and looked forth to sky and rock, her hand slowly rising in 
adjuration, as simple as it was stern and imposing. 

What witnesses, of her wrongs and sufferings, her wild 
hopes and haughty aims, and their cruel defeat, were all 
the objects which encompassed her. They were a part of 
herself. They had taught, informed, encouraged her na- 
ture. She had lived in and with them all, and all, in turn, 
had infused their naturednto hers. These rocks had taught 
her height and hardihood ; these waters, depth and contem- 
plation, and the tender nursing of solitary fancies; the 
woods had lessoned her heart with repose ; and the skies, 
with their eagles ever going upward, had taught hu* aspi- 
ration. 

Very mournful were they now in her eyes, assembled as 
witnesses of her fate. She was their child. Their sad as- 
pects were those of loving parents defrauded of every hope. 
They might well attest with sympathetic sternness of brow, 


beauchampe. 


and sadly echoing voices, her brief, savage oath of ven- 
geance. 

“ Yes,” she murmured, “ ye were all the witnesses of my 
\vi'ongs, my blindness, my madness, my simple faith, and 
cruelly-abused confidence. Here it was, that I listened to 
the subtle voice of the beguiler, even as the drowsing 
eagle, to the spells of the serpent, while he winds himself 
fatally about the neck of the free bird of the mountain ! 

“ Oh ! why did ye not fall upon me, rocks — upon both 
of us — ere I hearkened to the lying tempter — who deluded 
me with my own hopes, and made my own daring aspirations 
the very spells by which to destroy me ! 

“ Why, waters, when I fell headlong into your embrace, 
did ye not engulf me for ever. Any fate had been better 
far than this ! 

“ Cruel wast thou, that day, in thy loving-kindness, Wil- 
liam Hinkley, when thou drew’st me forth from their abys- 
ses ! 

“ Verily, thou hadst thy vengeance, William, for all the 
scorn which I gave thee in return for love, in the misery 
for which thou hast preserved me ! 

“Oh! thinking of all that time — of the fond, foolish 
vanity which so uplifted me, only to fling me down for ever 
from my pride of place and hope — I could weep tears of 
blood, tears of blood ! 

“ But mine eyes are dry. Would I could weep ! 

“ Alas, tiic sorrows that deny the heart its tears are such 
only as fill it with gall and venom! Wonder not, Alfred 
Stevens, wlion I face thee with death and terror! — Oh, 
when we meet ! when we meet ! 

“And we shall meet! I feel that we shall meet. There 
is a whisper, as that of a fate, or a demon, that breathes in 
mine ears the terrible promise. We shall meet! — thou, 
and I — and — Death ! — ” 

And she crouched down upon the boulder upon which 
she had been standing, on the very brink of that dark and 


THE U'TEXPECTEi; MEETINlx. 


sa 

silent lake, and buried her face within her hands, as if to 
shut out from sight the images of horror which that prom- 
ised meeting had raised up before her imagination. 

r oor, desolate woman ! There was still a strife in her 
heart, of contending hate and tendernpss. The woman who 
has once loved, however mistakenly, unwisely, and to her 
own ruin, never altogether loses the sentiment which even 
her destroyer has inspired. It is sKH a precious sentiment. 
It ])lcads in his behalf ; and if he be not heartless, and cold, 
and cruel, it will not wholly plead in vain. Mercy will in- 
terpose against hate, and the hand of vengeance will be apt 
to fall nerveless, even when about to strike fatally. 

But mercy does not plead for Alfred Stevens. He had 
shown no redeeming tenderness. lie had proved himself 
heartless — wantonly cruel — indifferent to the desolating 
doom which his guilty passions liad brought upon her. Mar- 
garet Cooper could feel tenderness still, but it was not for 
him. Here, her soul was resolute, her will iron. She did 
not recoil from the horrible deed on his account, but her 
own. It was tlie recoil of the feminine nature alone, and 
not pity, tliat made her shrink from the fearful images of 
blood which were conjured up by her excited fancy. 

But, suddenly, in the midst of her dream of terror and 
revenge, she starts — she starts to her feet, with a bound 
that makes the rock vibrate and quiver beneath her, on the 
very edge of the precipice. 

A voice is calling to her from the opposite Side of the 
lake. But a single word she hears : — 

“ Margaret !” 

She looks beyond the water, and on a cliff above the lake 
she sees the figure of a man — a noble, graceful figure — 
whom she recognises in a moment. 

“ God of heaven ! it is William Hinkley !” 

The words are only murmured. She waves her hand out 
involuntarily, as if to say : — 

2 * 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


"""Iway ! we must not meet! There must be no speech 
between us !” 

And then she starts, recedes from the stream, and, with 
hasty steps, glides into the cover of rock and forest. She 
was gone from sight in another moment, hurrying down the 
cliffs to the road where her carriage had been left at a little 
distance. 

William pursued — without any purpose, except to meet, 
io see, to speak once more to the woman whom he had 
loved, but with whom, as a single moment of thought would 
have assured him, he could have no closer communion. 

He pursued, but at disadvantage. He was compelled to 
compass the lake which lay between them. He pursued 
with the fleet bounds of the practised mountaineer, over the 
cliffs, and through the umbrage ; but in vain. She had 
reached the carriage ere he had descended from the heiglits. 
She had leaped in, and, with stern, low words, througli 
closely-compressed lips, she said to the negro driver : — 

“ Drive fast 1 — fast as you can 1” 

When the young man descended to the valley-road, she 
was gone. He could only catch the faint echoes of the 
receding wheels. 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


85 


CHAPTER III. 

PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 

“ Now should we make moral anatomies 
Of these two natures — hostile, yet so like.” 

And thus they met — and thus they parted ! 

Both creatures seeking the ideal ; born for other things 
than mere bread and meat ; born for love, for performance, 
for triumph; neither satisfied — both desponding: the one 
with the half-fanciful griefs of youth, which are designed to 
strengtlien, even as the obstruction which taxes and strains 
yet expands and improves the muscle ; the other with shame, 
which depresses the energies that it may refine them, and 
humbles the pride that it may waken the heart to becoming 
sensibilities. 

The one retires from the fruitless interview sad, disap- 
pointed, but, just in the same degree, better prepared to 
pursue one steady aim to right and complete achievement ; 
the other, ha\’ing her aim also, but one of a kind still further 
to humble pride, awaken sensibility, and, through agony, 
to conduct to peace ! 

Very difierent their objects, desires, performances ; but 
both working out results for humanity, such as, in tlie prog- 
ress of the life-ordeal, gradually inform society with new 
aspects and properties in man, and unfold the exactions of 
a progress in the ages, whose necessities evolve, through 
vice itself, the true conditions of all virtue. 

Shall they ever meet again, and how ? Shall they realize 


3C 


BEAUCHAMI'E. 


the vague hopes and objects that now persuade both minds ? 
shall they ever become to each other more than they are 
now? shall he attain greater triumphs of intellect — better 
securities of the heart ? shall she find the peace which she 
yearns for, even more than the wild justice which she seeks ? 
will she regain the wing of her youth and innocence, and 
steadily develop the gradual powers of that ambitious ge- 
nius which, in the very daring and pride of its aim, blinded 
her wholly to the dangers of her flight? Wc can not pre- 
scribe the course and conditions of their progress : we must 
be content simply to follow, and record them. They are in 
the hands of a self-made destiny, and must, because of will, 
and passion, and pt!culiar aims, determine their own fates. 
It is not for art to pass between, to interpose, to prevent, 
or pervert, or m any way alter, the fortunes of those whoso 
own characters constitute the arbitrary necessities govern- 
ing equally their lives and our invention. 

Sad, silent, full of roused thoughts and conflicting emo- 
tions, Margaret Cooper drove home to her obscure farm- 
stead, musing to herself, and murmuring within her soul, 
of the past and of the future. 

That single glance of an old and rejected lover — that 
one imploring word from his lips — smote on her heart with 
a sense of agonizing self-reproach. Her thoughts, framed 
into speech, might have run as follow : — 

“ With him I might have been happy. He was young, 
truthful, honorable. He loved me: that I felt then — that 
1 know now. He would have cherished me with affection, 
as he approached me with devotion ! Yes ! I might have 
been happy with him! — 

“ But I knew him not ! I undervalued him. I regarded 
him as the obscure peasant — having no high purpose — no 
mind — no great thoughts and ambitious fancies— sucli as 
should properly mate with mine ! 

‘‘ Even in this was I mistaken ! He had the faculties > 
but I was not wise enough to see them. I was blinded by 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


37 


Illy own wandering visions — that miserable vanity which 
relished no spectacle that did not present me with some 
image of myself — which, in perpetual self-delusion, could 
see nothing in the qualifications of another ! 

“ Yet, how bravely and nobly did that young man de- 
clare himself at last ! how wisely did he speak ! how clearly 
did he see the dangers gathering about me ! how, with what 
instinct, did he pierce the secret of that cunning serpent ! — 
while I, who despised him for the very humility of his aims 
— the very modesty of his passion — I could see nothing. 
I was a fool ! a fool ! — blind, deaf, mad ! But for this, we 
might have been happy together. It might have been ! it 
might have been ! 

“ Oh, mournful words ! — ‘ It might have been !’ 

“ Too late ! too late ! 

“ Love is impossible to me now. The dream is gone ! 
the hope — every hope! Even ambition is impossible! 
Alas, what a dream it was ! how wild, how impossible from 
the first ! Yet, I believed it all. Fool ! fool ! as if such 
could be the fortune of a woman ! Here,, too, in this sav- 
age region of shadow and obscurity, a woman conquering 
position, high place, high honors, great distinction! And 
I believed it all! — believed him, that treacherous serpent, 
when he crept with the subtle, sweet, lying whisper to my 
heart ! 0 fool ! fool ! fool ! 

“ But I am awake now ! I no longer delude myself ! 
None can delude me now ! 

“ Yet, to lose this so precious delusion ! Oh, the misery 
of this conviction, for in losing this I have lost all ! 

“Yet, was it a delusion? Could I not have achieved 
this distinction ? Is it true that there is no field for wo- 
man’s genius ? is it true that, of all this great country, 
there is no one region where the wisdom and the inspira- 
tion of woman can compel faith and find tribute ? is she to 
be a thing of base uses always, as the malignant lago has 
declared her? God, thou hast not designed this— else 


88 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


wherefore hast thou given her the will to soar, the faculty 
to sing, the genius to conceive, the art to refine and beau- 
tify, the sensibilities which make the beautiful her dream 
and her necessity alike ! 

“ It is a mystery — a mystery ! 

“ And I am hopeless ! lost ! loso ' All lost — lost to all ! 
Nothing left me but — ’’ 

She buried her face in her hands ; she shuddered. The 
terrible images, thronging about the one vindictive passion 
which her soul now entertained and fostered, seemed to 
gather before her eyes, and she covered them as if to shut 
out the fearful spectacle. She murmured audibly, after a 
brief pause: — 

I would I bad not seen William Ilinkley to-day ! The 
sight of him has weakened me. His voice seems to ring 
even now so mournfully in my ears — ‘ Margaret !’ 

“How often have I heard that name upon his lips — so 
tenderly — so pleadingly always — with so much sweetness 
and humility ! 

“ I despised him then. I looked down upon him then — 
with scorn — with contempt. 0 Margaret, Margaret! and 
thou darest not look upon him now 1 Shame, shame I my 
cheek burns with shame, as I think of him, and remember 
the calling of his voice. 

“Yes 1 yes ! we might have been happy together ! 

“ Too late ! too late I I can be happy no more !” 

We need not listen any longer to these mournful memo- 
ries of ruined hopes and lost honors, defeated ambition, de- 
frauded affection, bitter self-reproach, and still-sleepless 
and ever-goading passions. We need not follow her to the 
obscure retreat where she has striven for five dreary years 
to bury out of sight the secret of her shame. Enough that 
we have put on record the condition of her moods — her 
broken spirit, her almost purposeless intellect, and the one 
hope — the only one — which she seems to entertain. Those 
will suffice as clues for the future, showing the motifs the 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


89 


key-note, of much tliat prevails in the melancholy history 
which follows. 

Let us return to the young man whose disappointment 
we have just witnessed. He, too, as we have seen, has his 
griefs and trials ; but, unlike hers, they are not of a sort to 
bring humiliation in their train. 

When he found his pursuit was vain, and when the last 
faint echoes of the receding carriage-wheels came to his 
ears, he clasped his hands spasmodically together. 

“ She would not see me ! she would not even speak with 
me ! She feels the old scorn ; she knows not that I am no 
longer the obscure peasant that she knew me once 1” 

Foolish youth ! as if the fact, even if known to her, that 
he had won successes, and was glowing with the prospects 
and promises of fame, would have made her more tolerant 
of his presence. 

It was shame, not scorn, which made her fly from that 
meeting. 

It was a wild and stifling sense of agonizing humility 
that made her wave him off, in despair, as one of the most 
knowing witnesses of her fall from the proud heights where 
ho had once loved to behold and do her honor. 

Scorn now for him, on the part of Margaret Cooper, was 
impossible. It was fear, shame, horror, terror — nay, a 
sense of justice, and a new feeling of respect, if not rever- 
ence — that made her shrink before his face. 

Brooding sadly upon his disappointment, witli bewilder- 
ing thoughts and conflicting feelings, the young man slowly 
made his way back through the valley of Charlcmont, going 
unconsciously among the deserted dwellings, in the direc- 
tion of the heights where he had left his venerable compan- 
ion. As he passed the schoolhouse, he heard the voice of 
the senior calling to him from the shade of the great oaks 
by which it was overhung. 

He joined him in silence. 

The old man was sitting upon the turf beneath the trees. 


10 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


a thoughtful smile upon his countenance. He was once 
more in the well-remembered places in which so many years 
of his life had been spent. Here he had himself mused 
and meditated, from a safe distance, the capricious changes 
and frauds of busy life among the crowd. Here he had 
given the first lessons, in the humanities, to the young 
man who now made his way in silence and sat down beside 
him. 

“ Well,’’ said the elder, “ did you overtake her, Wil- 
liam ?” 

“ You saw her, then ?” was the indirect reply. 

“ Yes, I saw a female, in widow’s weeds, but only for a 
moment. She disappeared among the rocks in an instant 
after. I concluded, from the wild haste of your movement, 
that you had recognised her as Margaret Cooper. Was I 
right?” 

“ Yes !” 

“ Did you speak with her ?” 

“No, sir; she fled from me — waved me off as I called 
to her, and disappeared in the thicket. When I succeeded 
in getting round the lake where I saw licr, she was gone. 
I could just catch the sounds of carriage-wheels. She still 
scorns or hates me as much as ever.” 

“ She does neither, my son. On this subject you seem to 
lose all your usual powers of reasoning. Margaret Cooper 
would not see, or speak with you, from very shame and hu- 
miliation. Why should she speak with you ? Have you 
anything of a pleasant kind to communicate to each other ? 
Why should she sec you ? To bo reminded only of a his- 
tory full of mortification to her ! You arc unreasonable, 
my son.” 

The other had no answer. 

“And now, William, pray tell me why you desired to 
see her. You have, no doubt, some of your old feelings 
for her ; but is it really in your thought to marry Margaret 
Cooper ?” 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 41 

“Oh, no, sir! — no! How could you suooose such a 
thing 

“ I do not suppose such a thing, and thcrelo^:, .i. say that 
you are very unreasonable, nay, more, unkind and cruel, in 
your attempt to see her. You have no business with her ; 
you have no reason to suppose that you can help her in 
any way ; and your passion for her — wliatever of it now- 
remains — is not such as to prompt you to make her your 
wife. You obeyed only a youthful impulse in desiring to 
see her, without reflecting upon the cruelty of the proceed- 
ing. It was this blind impulse only ; for I know you too 
well to think that you would be thus moved by a merely 
wanton, and, in respect to her, a cruel curiosity.” 

“ You are right, sir. It was a blind impulse. I am a 
boy still. I shall never be wise.” 

“ Nay 1 nay 1 you do yourself wrong. If to be wise re- 
quired that we should never be wrong — should never feel 
an impulse, and in the moment obey it — I should agree with 
you, and argue against your intellect and moral with your- 
self. But, you are simply young, ardent, sensitive, with a 
free gush of blood from the heart to the brain, such as time 
and training only will enable you to regulate. We must 
learn to wait on youth. All in due season. It is enough 
for mo to see that you are in the right course, generally, 
though sometimes, like a young and fiery Arabian, you bolt 
the track. But, the present opportunity for a lesson must 
not be foregone. I hope that you will never again repeat 
this cruelty to this unhappy woman. She has shown you 
always, as well in the day of her pride as in that of her 
shame, that she does not sympathize with your affections. 
You yourself admit that, even were she to do so, you could 
never offer yourself to her in marriage. She has in no way 
given you to believe that she needs your services either as 
man or lawyer. We know that, though in moderate cir- 
cumstances, she needs no succor in money. Now, on what 
pretence of reason would you seek to see her ? What pro- 


41 ^ 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


text of humanity, or law, of manhood, or sympathy of any 
sort, can be urged for your thrusting yourself upon a per- 
son who distinctly shows you that she desires no commu- 
nion with you. I repeat, she does not scorn or hate you, 
William, but the meeting with you must necessarily be pain- 
ful to her. Why should you inflict this pain ?” 

“ No more, sir, please say na more. I will not err in 
this manner again.’’ 

The young man spoke with a choking effort, and his head 
hung down, and a great drop fell from his eyes. 

“ lm])iilsc, by a law of nature, is necessarily a selfishness. 
Our duty, for this reason is to curb it. Impulse rarely al- 
lows us to recognise the rights of others, their situation or 
their sensibilities. It is humanity only, that requires that 
we should set reason on perpetual watch, as a good house- 
dog, to see that this outlaw, impulse, does not break down 
the door, and break into the close, to the terror, if not the 
destruction, of the trembling flock within.” 

“ Enough on this head, sir. 1 will not err again.” 

“ Another, my son, of quite as much importance to your- 
self and of even more importance to others. You have 
chosen a profession. A profession, once ciiosen, consti- 
tutes a pledge to the Deity for the proper working out of 
your human purposes, and the exercise of your peculiar 
gifts. Passions, and fancies, and desires, which keep us 
away from our duties — which make us work sluggishly at 
them, and without proper sympathy and energy, are in- 
dulged sinfully. You must fight against them, Willie. 
You must not only give up the pursuit of Margaret Cooper 
— as I know you will — but you must give up the very 
thought of her.” 

“ How is that possible ?” 

‘‘ It is possible. It must be done. You have but to re- 
solve, Willie ; and be equally resolved upon the law ! You 
must give up Eros, and all the tributary muses of that god. 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


4o 


Tliey still too mucli employ your thought. Look at what 1 
copied last night from the fly leaf of your docket.” 

The senior produced a sheet of paper, and in somewhat 
lackadaisacal accents, read the following verses: — 

SING NOT OF FAME. 

I. 

“ Sing not of Fame ! There was a time 
Such song had suited well mine ear. 

When passion had sought, perchance through crime, 

Ambition’s laurelled pomps to wear ; 

The wild desire, th’ impetuous thirst. 

The wing to soar, the will to sway. 

Had led me on, through fields accurst. 

On all life’s precious things to prey. 

Sing not of Fame. 

II. 

“ Oh ! rather sing of lonely hours, 

And sleepless niglits and mournful sighs, 

When on his couch of blasted flowers. 

Despair looks up with loathing eyes ; 

In vain, with visions sti-aining far, 

Hope seeks dear shape and baffled dream ; 

• And wandering on, from star to star. 

Finds mockery in each golden gleam. 

Sing not of fame !” 

“ Now, Willie, these are what the newspapers woul 1 call 
very good verses ; nay, there are some moralists, even in 
the pulpit, who, regarding the one proposition only, wliich 
rebukes ambition, would hold them to contain very pro])er 
sentiments. Yet they are all wrong.” 

“ Oh ! sir, waste no more words upon sucli a theme. It 
is a poor trifle. I did not mean that you should sec it. 
Give it me, sir, or tear it up if you please.” 

“ Nay, nay, I will do neither, Willie. They will I'etter 
represent my sentiment than yours. It is for Iiim whose 
own struggles of ambition have resulted in vanities, tc de- 
clare ambition itself a vanity ; but if it be such, it is one 
which is at once natural and of the best uses to humanity. 
Were it not for ambition, ours would be a brute world 


44 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


merely. There would be little in life, worth more than a 
good grazing patch to a hungry buffalo. It is ambition that 
puts in exercise all the agencies of art and civilization. It 
is ambition that sires all public virtues. I do not now 
mean that poor drivelling vanity, which foolish people call 
ambition, but that glorious builder and destroyer, who makes 
great empires, and achieves great results, and wrestles and 
toils for the victory, and is never so well satisfied as in the 
toil and the conflict, without one moment considering the 
results to self. Its presence implies strength for achieve- 
ment, courage to dare new paths, enthusiasm to sustain 
against defeat, power to conceive and create agencies, and 
art to work out all the processes of great and bold and 
novel performance. This is my notion of ambition, and the 
fame which follows, or should follow such performances, is 
a legitimate object of human desire — but only where the 
endowment really exists.” 

“Ah, sir, this brings me to my particular trouble, and, 
no doubt, justifies the sentiment of my ballad. What if I 
really lack the endowments which, alone, have the right to 
crave the laurel ? It is your affectionate interest, alone, I 
fear, which holds tliem to be in my possession.” 

“ Not so, my son. I have no doubts of your possessions 
— nay, have little of the use which you are destined to 
make of them. I know, too, that your song is but the fruit 
of a temporary despondency — the voice of a momentary 
mood, in which the sensitive nature rather rests herself 
than desponds. We are all more or less liable to these fits 
of despondency, and they have their uses. They fling the 
mind back upon the heart, and contribute to check its fro- 
ward tendencies. They counsel due caution and humility 
to progress. They teach modesty to conquest. I do not 
i'ear them in your case, though I counsel you against too 
great indulgence of them. You would feel them even if 
you had never been denied by Margaret Cooper. They are 
signs, in fact, of the ambitious nature which thus deplores 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


46 


its cwn slow progress. But too much encouraged — and 
they have their beguiling attractions to a nature such as 
yours — they are apt to enfeeble. They encourage re very, 
which is always a dangerous pleasure, as it induces inac- 
tion. In our world, the d.mands of society require sleep- 
less activity and vigilance. If we pause too long for rest 
— if we too much dream — we wake to find some other per- 
son in possession of our conquests. You are now with 
hand upon the plough, and there must be no misgiving — 
no hesitation. To-morrow, as Milton hath it — ‘ to fresh 
fields and pastures new.’ And you will feel this new im- 
pulse to-morrow. You will forget your disappointment of 
heart — I should say fancy rather — in fresh motives to 
struggle. You will one day wonder, indeed, that Margare^^ 
Cooper should have been so dear to you.” 

“Never! never!” 

“ Ay, but you will, and forget her beauties and charn?s, 
her bold talent and commanding nature, in still superior 
attractions.’' 

The youth shook his head with mournful denial. 

“ So will it be, Willie. That the boy should love at sev- 
enteen or eighteen — that he should insist upon loving at 
that period — nay, fancy the charms which inspire passion 
— is his absolute necessity. But the passion of this period 
is still but a boy passion only. His heart will rarely be 
touched by it. I would not have your passion absorbed by 
your ambition. I would only use the one passion to restrain 
and regulate the choice of the other. Do you suppose that 
God has made us so inflexible that but one woman in all the 
world should satisfy the longings of the heart ? If so, and 
you never should meet with this one woman ? Besides, do 
you not see how perfectly childish it is to suppose, at twenty 

five when youth is all vigor; when every muscle is a 

conscious power ; when the heart and head are full of pow- 
ers ; all demanding exercise ; when the fancy is on per- 
petual wing ; when the imagination daily communes with 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


4G 

some ideal, bringing out the wing into the sunshine — how 
childish then to fancy that life can be without purposes, and 
liope no longer a thing of aim, filled with generous desires ! 
Your ballad, as I have said, declares only for a temporary 
mood which another day will dissipate. You have only 
read too much of Byron. This mood was his role. It was 
at once true and false. True, as it illustrated a temporary 
mood ; false, as it insisted upon this mood as a fatality ; ma- 
king that a life, which was only a passing cloud over the 
face of life.’’ 

The subject had led the old man on much farther than 
lie had designed. The youth submitted patiently to his 
ancient teacher. It was thus that his youth had been les- 
soned : thus that his heart and fancy had been trained; so 
tliat, with all his seeming impulse and despondency, his 
aims were really more in harmony with liis powers, than is 
usually the case with most young men. ^ 

We have dwelt longer upon this sort of teaching than 
is necessary to our story — as a story. But we have had 
our object in our desire for the proper characterization of 
both parties. The novel only answers half its uses when 
we confine it to the simple delineation of events, however 
ingenious and interesting. 

There was a brief pause in the dialogue, when the elder, 
without leaving the subject of conversation, presented it to 
his young companion’s mood through another medium. 
He had his objects, we may say, in thus familiarizing the 
niind of the youth with the annoying topic. Could he trans- 
fer the case from the courts of the affections to those of the 
brain — we do not mean to say, from the lower to the upper 
courts — he felt that he should work very considerably 
toward the relief of moods which were a little too much in- 
dulged in for propriety, and, perhaps, safety. 

“It is somewhat surprising, William, that Margaret 
Cooper never once detec ed your sympathies with poetry, 
and your own occasional wooings of the muse. Had she 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. i7 

done SO, it would, I think, have greatly helped your woo- 
ings of herself. Did you ever show her any of your verses V* 

“ Never, sir.’^ 

“ And you never once, I suspect, betrayed any desire to 
see her verses ?” 

‘‘ Never, sir ! I thought only of 

“ Had you been a worldling, William, with a better 
knowledge of human nature, and woman nature, you mig1|t 
have been more successful. Alfred Stevens knew better. 
He simply held the mirror before the eyes of her vanity. 
He showed her her own portrait even as she desired to see 
it — as she was accustomed to see it. He pleased her with 
herself. He confirmed her notions of herself. He gave 
his sympathies to her ambition, and never troubled himself 
about her affections, which he soon discovered were prop- 
erly approachable only through her ambition. The great 
secret of conquest over such persons is to become a neces- 
sary minister to their most passionate desires. The devil 
worked thus cunningly with Eve. He works, in this very 
wise, with all our passions. You might have succeeded as 
Stevens did, had you been a student of humanity — had you 
been capable of the painful study of its weaknesses, and 
willing to descend to the mean occupation of stimulating 
them into excesses. This poor girl lived only in her am- 
bition. Her affections were all bonded to her brain. This 
made her bold — made her confident of strength. She did 
not fear her affections — she did not crave sympathy for 
them. She could only do so, after her fall from place and 
purity. Had your sympathies been given to her intellect, 
and had you shown her your capacity to sympathize fully 
with, and appreciate the objects of her own desire, you 
could have won all the affections that she wis able to be- 
stow. You would be mere successfiil in pursuit now.’’ 

“ But you can not think, sir, that 1 have now any pur- 
pose — any wish 

He paused. 


48 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ No ! that is impossible now, I know. Your own pride, 
your own ambition, if nothing else, would preserve you from 
any such desire. I am speaking, now, only of the natural 
change in her, such as her changed condition necessarily 
works. In her fall, her mind became humanized. Her 
heart )s even purer, and truer now, in its shame — has more 
vitality, more sensibility, more delicacy, more sympathy 
with the really true and good — than she had when her name 
was without spot. Margaret Cooper did not fall through 
vicious inclinations, but a wilful pride. I regard her as 
far more really virtuous, now — as now conscious of the 
value of virtuous sympathies — conscious, in other words, 
of a heart-development — than she was in the day of her 
insolent pride, when her vanity stood unrebuked by any 
consciousness of lapse or weakness. The humility which 
follows shame is one of the handmaids employed ta conduct 
to virtue.” 

And thus, resting upon the hill-side, and looking down 
upon that ruined hamlet, age and youth discoursed of the 
past, as if life had no future. But the future hath its germ 
in the past, and the present is a central point of survey, 
from which the wise may behold both oceans. We shall see, 
in our progress, what was the result of this serious dis- 
course, which places in our hands certain of the clues to the 
tale which follows — which sounds the preluding notes, and 
prepares us, in some degree, for the social tragedy wliich 
the rude chronicle of the border-historian has yielded to 
the purposes of art. 

The sun was rapidly passing down the slope of heaven. 
The valley of Charlemont began to look colder and darker 
in the eyes of our two companions. They had turned aside 
from their appointed road to take a last look, and a final 
farewell of the cld-remembered places. This done, they 
prepared to depart. Tn a’lother hour they were slowly 
riding through the paths of the foreet, directing their course 
for the dwelling of Edward H’nM'y h covsiu o^ William, 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


49 


wlio was now a thriving young farmer, in a beautiful tract 
of country, some twelve miles farther on. While they sat 
at his cheerful fireside that night, they discoursed of every- 
thing but their mournful visit, and the encounter that day 
with Margaret Cooper. Her name was not once mentioned 
in William’s presence. Ned’s fiddle enlivened the family 
circle after supper, and while the buoyant young man 
played for his sombre cousin, and the more ancient guest, 
the thought of William wandered off to the unknown dwel-* 
ling of Margaret. 

Where was she then ? How employed ? With what 
hopes, in what condition ? 

Could he have seen her brooding that night over the meet- 
ing of that day ! Could he have heard her mournful exclama- 
tions of self-reproach — seen with what dreary aspect, she 
mused on the terrible words: ‘‘ Too late — too late !” his 
sympathies would have made him forgetful of all the coun- 
sels of his venerable friend. As it was, he heard but little 
of his cousin’s violin. The gay sounds were lost upon his 
senses. His revery depicted still mournfully enough, 
though inadequately, the condition of the unhappy woman, 
isolated by her own intellect as by her aefeat and shame. 
There she sat, in her own Icnely chamber, with but one 
companion — the muse — brooding over her fate until the 
gloomy thought took the form of verse — the only process 
left her by which to relieve the over-burdened brain. We 
shall assert a privilege denied to William, and look over 
her as she writes. Her verses, singularly masculine as 
well as mournful, will constitute a sufficient and appro- 
priate prelude, to the sequel of her unhappy story. 

“ ’Tis meet that self-abandoned I should bo. 

Whom all things do abandon ! Where is Death ? 

1 call upon the rocks and on the sea : 

The rocks subside — the waters backward flee — 

The storm degenerates to the zephyr’ s breath, 

And even the vapors of the swamp deny 

B 


60 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Theii* poison ! It is vain that I would die ! 

Earth hath not left one charity for me ! 

Fate takes no shape to fright me — none to save. 

Or stifle, and I live as in a grave 
Where only death is wanting. 

Oh ! the gall. 

And hitter of a life where this is all ! 

Where one can neither drink, nor dream, nor choke. 
And freedom’s self is but a bond and yoke. 

And breath and sight denial ! 

Why the light, 

When the life’s hope is sightless ? Why the bloom. 
When naught of flavor’s left upon the taste ? 

Why beauty, when the eartli refuses sight. 

Leaving all goodliest things to go to waste ? — 

And why not Death when Life’s itself a tomb !” 



LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


51 


CHAPTER IV. 

LAW IN DESHABILLE. 

** Fun is your true philosophy : the laugh 
Still speaks the winning wisdom.^^ 

With change of scene, we change tlie nature of the ac- 
tion. Life shows us hourly all the rapid transitions of the 
kaleidoscope : now we share the bright, now the dark ; 
now the scintillating gleams of a thousand tiny sparklers, 
in wreaths, and roses, stars, and beautiful twinings, that 
seem as endless in variety of form as color — and anon the 
cold formality of cross and square, and the solemn signifi- 
cance of the perpetual circle, which leaves the eye no 
salient beauty upon which to rest. The youth weeps to- 
day, with a grief that seems altogether too hard to bear ; 
and lie laughs to-morrow with a joy that seems as wild, 
and capricious, and as full of levity and hum, as the 
life in the little body of a humming-bird. And so, we pass, 
per saltern, from gay to grave, from lively to severe, and if 
reason be the question, in either change, with quite as lit- 
tle justification in any ! Wc are creatures of a caprice 
which might be held monstrously immoral and improper, 
were it not that caprice is just as essential to the elasticity 
and tone of humanity, as it is to the birds and breezes. 

But, whatever, the changing phase of the mood and the 
moment, the motif of the performance is the same. We 
get back, all of us, to the old places in our circle. We set 


62 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


our figures in our drama, and they laugh or weep, droop 
or dance, are sad or merry, as the case may be ; but never 
materially, or for any length of time, to baffle the fates, 
which are just as arbitrary in the world of art, as in that of 
humanity. If therefore, we, who have so recently been 
dwelling on very gloomy topics — presenting only dark and 
sombre, and even savage aspects to the mirror — now show 
ourselves in quite other characters and costume, this is no 
fault in us, nor does it conflict with the absolute law in our 
progress. That is written, as indelibly as were the laws 
of Mede and Persian, and the decrees of court undergo no 
fluctuation, though there may be a burst of mistimed mer- 
riment during the course of the trial. The change of scene 
will make a difference — change of costume, and the intro- 
duction of new characters. Besides, as we liave already 
gravely taught, the moods of mind have no permanent in- 
fluence, or but very little, on the real nature, the true char- 
acter of the subject, which has its own atmosphere, and 
tends inevitably to decreed results, which, to be legitimate, 
must be systematic throughout, and arbitrary in all their 
workings. We can not help it, if, while the mournful pro- 
cession is in progress to the grave, and the bolt strikes 
down the noble, and the gloomy pall hides the bright and 
beautiful from loving eyes — if fools laugh the while, and 
the cold, the base, the cruel, pursue each their several lit- 
tle, sneaking, scoundrelly purposes, working against the 
sweetest humanities of life and culture ! 

With this caveat against any mistakes of assumption, we 
raise the curtain upon other scenes and ciiaractcrs. 

The city of Frankfort, in the noble state of Kentucky, 
is very beautifully situated upon the banks of the river of 
that name. It is overlooked by a cluster of steep hills, but 
occupies an elevation of its own, at a point wliere the river 
curves gracefully before it, in a crescent figure. The city, 
itself, of moderate dimensions at the period of which wo 
write, is a capital ; handsomely built, laid out in rectangu- 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


lar sections, and presenting, altogether, a view at once 
pleasing and promising, scanned from any of the numer- 
ous eminences which look down upon it. A place, now, of 
considerable opulence, and tolerably large population, it 
was even then distinguished by its numerous men of talent 
and people of fashion. Of the former, at this and suose- 
quent periods, it has furnished to the Union abundant 
proofs ; of the latter, the charm will be remembered with 
freshening interest, by all who have ever enjoyed the grace 
and hospitality of its society. 

Upon the resources of this young and promising capital, 
however, it is not our purpose to dwell. We are permitted 
to glance at its circles only, and to detach, from the great 
body of the community, a few only of its members, and such 
of its haunts only as can but imperfectly illustrate its vir- 
tues. We proceed to introduce them. 

The reader will please suppose himself for the time, 
within one of those dark, obscure tabernacles — sanctuaries 
dare we call them? — which, in the silent, narrow streets 
and portions of a city which are usually most secluded from 
the uproarious clamors of trade, have been commonly as- 
signed to, or rather chosen by, the professors of the law, 
in which to carry on their mysteries in appropriate places 
of concealment. Like the huge spiders to which the satirist 
has so frequently likened them, these grave gentlemen 
have always exhibited a most decided preference for retreats 
in dismal and dusty corners. They seem to find a moral 
likeness for the craft in the antique, the obscure, and the 
intricate ; and with a natural propriety 1 They seem to 
shrink, with a peculiar modesty, from the externally attrac- 
tive, the open, the transparent, and the graceful ; as calcu- 
lated to attract too curious eyes, if not admiration ; and 
whether it is that their veneration for the profession de- 
mands the nicest preservation of the antiquities which it so 
loves to enshrine and cherish, even after their uses have 
utterly departed, or whether it is that the wisdom which 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


± 

they practise, is of the owl-like sort which will tolerate no 
excess of light, it is very certain that you will find them 
always in the most dingy and out-of-the-way dwellings, 
in the most dismal and obscure lanes and crannies of a 
city. The moral usually determines the externals. It 
would seem, among most of the practitioners whom it is my 
fortune to knowjQhat anything like a conspicuous situation, 
and neat, well-fitted, and cleanlily-painted rooms, would 
incur the reproach of professional dandyism. These might 
argue, perliaps, against the profundity, the gravity, the dig- 
nity, the obscurity, of the sage professor. They might break 
the effect of that Burleigh nod which means so much, and 
is of such prodigious emphasis, so long as the shaker of the 
head shows nothing else, and keeps as dumb as dark ! 
Such is the prescriptive necessity of tliese externals, that 
you will rarely happen upon the young student who wHl 
readily fall into the levities of clean lodging, decent exte- 
rior, and a modern-looking set of chambers. 

The office to which we now repair, is one which evidently 
belongs to a veteran ; one, at least, who knows what are 
the excellent effects upon the vulgar superstition, of the 
rust and dust of antiquity. If ever dirt and dismals could 
make any one spot more sacred than another, in the eyes 
of a grave and learned lawyer — who understands the full 
value of mere externals, and of authority upon the vulgar 
mind — this was the place. Here dullness was sainted; 
obscurity jealously insured and protected ; dust consecrated 
to sacred uses and respect ; and law prcserv.ed in maxims, 
which it would be worse than heresy to question. Here, 
darkness and doubt were honored things ; and mere accu- 
mulation grew into a divinity, whose cliaotic treasures no 
one ever dreamed to distrust. Autliority, here, wielding 
her massy tomes, as Hercules his club, craved no succor 
from digestion ; knocking reason over with the butt of the 
pistol, according to Johnson, when failing to do execution 
from the muzzle. One breathed an atmosphere of dust at 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


55 


the mere sight of these chambers : the dusty desks, dirty 
books, grimy walls ; all inspiring solemn thoughts of the 
tombs of Egypt and the Assyrian, merely to behold them. 
The two small apartments, such as a lawyer would regard 
as snug, were dimly lighted by a single window in each, 
and these looked out upon a dismal and crowded little court. 
The panes of the two windows, wretchedly small as tliey 
were, had, evidently, never once, since fashioned in their 
frames, been opened, or subjected to the impertinent agency 
of soap and water. The sun grew jaundiced as he looked 
through the sombre glasses. Shelves of cumbrous volumes, 
all of that uniform vulgar complexion which distinguishes 
the books of a lawyer’s office — a uniform as natural as 
drab to the quaker, white neckwrappers to the priest, and 
black to the devil — increased the lugubrious aspect of the 
apartments. Plaster casts of Coke and Bacon, and sun- 
dry other favorite authorities, stood over the book-cases, 
smeared with soot, and fettered with the cobwebs of three 
lives, or, possibly, as many generations. The rooms had 
little other furniture of any sort, except the huge table 
covered with baize, now black, which had once been green, 
and which also bore its century of dingy volumes. Rigid 
cases of painted pine occupied the niches on each side of 
the chimney, divided into numerous sections, each filled 
with its portly bundles of closely-written papers : — 

“ Strange words, scrawled with a barbarous pen.” 

In short, the picture was that of a law-office, the proprietor 
of which was in very active and successful practice. 

But the gravity which distinguished the solemn fixtures, 
and the silent volumes, did not extend to the human inmates 
of this dim lodging-house of law. Two of these sat by the 
table in the centre of the room. Their feet were upon it 
at opposite quarters, while their chairs were thrown back 
and balanced upon their hind legs, at such an angle as gave 
most freedom and ease of position to the person 


56 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Something of merriment had inspired them, for the room 
was full of cachination from their rival voices, long before 
our entrance. Of the topics of which they spoke, the 
reader must form his own conjectures. They may have a 
significance hereafter, of which we have no present intima- 
tion. It may be well to state, however, that it is our pres- 
ent impression that we have somewhere met both of these 
persons on some previous occasion. We certainly remem- 
ber that tall, slender form, that sly, smiling visage, and 
those huge bushy whiskers. That chuckling laugh enters 
into our ears like a well-remembered sound ; and, as for 
the companion of him from whom it proceeds, we can not 
mistake. Every word and look is familiar. It is five 
years gone, indeed, but the impression was too strongly 
impressed to be so easily obliterated. 

Our companions continued merry. The conversation was 
still disjointed — just enough being said to renew the laugh- 
ter of both parties. As, for example : — 

“ Such an initiation !” said one. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the other, at the bare suggestion. 

“ And did you mark the uses made of old Darby, 
Warham 

“ No : I missed him before eleven. Did he not escape ? 
Where was he V’ 

“ Quiet as a mouse, unconscious as a pillow, under the 
feet of Barnabas. Barnabas used him as a sort of foot- 
stool. First one foot, then another, came down upon his 
breast; and you know the measure of Barnabas’ legs. 
Ha! ha! ha!” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” 

“ Hundred-pounders each, by Jupiter. Whenever they 
came down you could hear the squelch. Poor Darby did 
not seem to breathe at any other time, and the air was 
driven out of him with a gush. Ha! ha! ha! It was 
decidedly the demdest fine initiation I ever saw at the 
club.” 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


57 


“ But Beauchampe 

“ Ah ! that was a dangerous experiment. He can’t stand 
the stuff.” 

“ No, Ben, and that’s not all. It will not do to put it in 
him, or there will be no standing him. What passions ! 
Egad, I trembled every moment lest he should draw knife 
upon the pope. He’s more a madman when drunk than 
any man I ever saw.” 

“ He’s no gain to the club. He has no idea of joking. 
He’s too serious.” 

“Yet what a joke it was, when he took the pope by his 
nose, in order to show how a cork could be pulled without 
either handkerchief or corkscrew.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! I thought he’d have wrung it off.” 

“ That was the pope’s fear also : but he was too much 
afraid of provoking the madman to do worse, to make the 
slightest complaint, and he smiled too, with a desperate 
effort, while the water was trickling from his eyes.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” and the chuckling was renewed, until 
the sound of footsteps in the front room induced their 
return to sobriety. 

“ Who’s there ?” demanded one of the merry com- 
panions. 

“Me! — the pope,” answered the voice of the intruder. 

“ Ha 1 ha 1 ha !” was the simultaneous effusion of the 
two, concluded, however, with an invitation to the other to 
come in. 

“ Come in, pope, come in.” 

A short, squab, but active little man, whose eyes snapped 
continually, and whose proboscis was of that truculent 
complexion and shape which invariably impresses you with 
the idea of an experienced bottle-holder, at once made his 
appearance. 

“ Ha 1 ha ! ha ! Your reverence, how does your dignity 
feel this morning — your nose, I mean ?” 

3 * 


68 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Don’t talk of it, Warham, I was never so insulted in 
all my life.” 

“ Insulted ! How ? By what ?” 

“ By what ! why, by that d d fellow pulling my nose.” 

‘‘Indeed, why that was universally esteemed a compli- 
ment, and it was supposed by every one to give you pleas- 
ure, for you smiled upon him in the most gracious manner, 
while he was most stoutly tugging at it.” 

“ So I did, by the ghost of Naso, but reason good was 
there why I should ? The fellow was mad — stark mad.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think he would have done you any harm.” 

“ Indeed, eh ! don’t you. By the powers, and if you 
have your doubts on that point, get your nasal eminence 
betwixt his thumb and finger, as mine was, and you will 
be ready enough to change your notion, before the next 
sitting of the Symposia. D — n it, I have no feeling in the 
region. It’s as perfectly dead to me ever since, as if it 
were frozen.” 

“ It certainly does wear a very livid appearance, eh, 
Ben ?” remarked the other, gravely. 

“ Do you think so ?” responded the visiter, with some 
signs of disquiet. 

“ Indeed, I do think so. Will you pass Dr. Filbert’s this 
morning? if so, take his opinion.” 

“ I will make it a point to do so. I will.” 

“ It’s prudent only. I have heard of several disastrous 
cases of the loss of the nose. Perhaps there is no feature 
which is so obnoxious to injury. The most fatal symptom 
is an obtuseness — a sort of numbness — a deficiency of 
sensibility. ” 

“ My very symptom.” 

“ Amputation has been frequently resorted to, but not 
always in season to prevent the spread of mortification.” 

“ The devil, you say — amputation !” 

“ Yes, but this is a small matter.” 

What! to lose one’s nose — and such a nose!” 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


59 


“Yes, a small matter. Such is the progress of art that 
noses of any dimensions are now supplied to answer all 
purposes.” 

“Is this true, Warham? But dang it, even if it wore, 
there’s no compensating a man for the loss of his own. Nc 
nose could be made to answer my purposes half so well as 
the one I was born with.” 

“But you do not suppose that you were born with that 
nose.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ You were born of the flesh. But that nose is decidedly 
more full of the spirit.” 

“ That’s an imputation. But I can tell you that a man’s 
nose may become very red, yet he be very temperate.” 

“ Granted. But temperance, according to the club, im- 
plies anything but abstinence. Besides, you were made 
perpetual pope only while your nose lasted, and color, size, 
and the irregular prominences by which yours is so thickly 
studded, were the causes of your selection. The loss of 
your nose itself would not be your only loss. You would 
be required to abdicate.” 

“ But you are not serious, Warham, about the suscepti- 
bility of the nose to injury.” 

“ Ask Ben !” 

“ It’s a dem’d dangerous symptom, you have, your rev- 
erence.” 

“ Coldness — at once a sign of disease, though latent per- 
haps, and of inferior capacity, for it is the distinguishing 
trait of cat and dog.” 

“ And the dem’d numbness.” 

“ Ay, the want of sensibility is a bad sign. Besides, I 
think the pope’s nose has lost nearly all its color.” 

“ Except a dark crimson about the roots.” 

“ And the bridge is still passable.^^ 

“ Yes, but how long will it be so in the club ? That has 
grown pale also.” 


60 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


To a degree, only, Ben : I don’t think it much faded.” 

Perhaps not ; and now I look again, it does seem to 
me that one of the smaller carbuncles on the main promi- 
nence keeps up appearances.” 

“ Look you, lads, d — n it, you’re quizzing me !” was the 
sudden interruption of the person whose nose furnished the 
subject of discussion, but his face wore a very bewildered 
expression, and he evidently only had a latent idea of the 
waggery of which lie was the victim. 

“ Quizzing !” exclaimed one of the companions. 

^ Quizzing !” echoed the other. “ Never was more dem’d 
serious in all my life !” and he stroked his black, bushy 
whiskers in a very conclusive manner. The visiter applied 
his fingers to the nasal prominence which had become so 
fruitful a source of discussion, and passed them over its 
various outline with the tenderness of a man who handles a 
subject of great intrinsic delicacy. 

“ It feels pretty much as ever !” said he, drawing a long 
breath. 

“ Ay, to your fingers. But what is its own feeling ? Try 
now and snuff the air.” 

The ambiguous member was put into instant exercise, and 
such a snuffing and snorting as followed, utterly drowned 
the sly chuckling in which the jeering companions occasion- 
ally indulged. They played the game, however, with mar- 
vellous command of visage. 

“I can snuff — I can draw in, and drive out the air!” 
exclaimed the pope, with the look of a man somewhat bet- 
ter satisfied. 

‘‘Ay, but do you feel it cut — is it sharp — does the air 
seem to scrape against and burn, as it were, the nice, deli- 
cate nerves of that region.” 

“ I can’t say that it does.” 

“ Ah 1 that’s bad. Look you, Ben. There’s a paper of 
snuff, yellow snuff, on the mantelpiece in t’other room. 
Bring it — let the pope try that.” 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


61 


The other disappeared, and returned, bringing with him 
one of those paper rolls which usually contain Sanford’s 
preparation of bark. Nor did the appearance belie the 
contents. The yellow powder was bark. 

“ Now, pope, try that ! The test is infallible, that is the 
strongest Scotch snuff, and if that don’t succeed in titilla' 
ting your nostrils, run to Filbert with all possible despatch. 
He may have to operate !” 

The pope’s hand was seen to tremble, as a portion of the 
powder described as so very potent, was poured into it by 
the confederate. He put it to his nose, and, in his haste 
and anxiety, fairly buried his suspected member in the 
powder. His cheeks shared freely in the bounty, and his 
mouth formed a better idea of the qualities of the “ snuff,” 
than ever could his proboscis. The application over, the 
patient prepared himself to sneeze, by clapping one hand 
upon the pit of his stomach, opening his moutli, and care 
fully thrusting his head forward and his nose upward. 

“ Oh ! you’re trying to sneeze !” said one of tic two. 
“ You shouldn’t force the matter.” 

“ No, I don’t. But is the snuff so very strong?” 

“ The demdest strongest Scotch that I ever nosed yet.” 

“ I can’t sneeze !” said the pope, in accents of conster- 
iioiion. 

His companions shook their heads dolefully. He looked 
from one to the other as if not knowing what to do. 

“ A serious matter,” said one. 

“ Dem’d serious! There’s no telling, Warham, what 
sort of a looking person the pope would be without his 
nose.” 

“ Difficult, indeed, to imagine. A valley for a mountain ! 
It’s as if we went to bed to-night with the town at the foot 
of the hills, and rose to-morrow to find it on the top of them. 
There’s nothing more important to a man’s face than his 
nose. Appearances absolutely demand it. The uses of a 
nose, indeed, are really less important than its presence.” 


62 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ I can’t agree with you there, Warham ; a sneeze — ” 

Is a joy, Ben — a luxury ; but a nose is a necessity. 
What show could a man make without a nose ?” 

‘‘ Rather what a show he would make of himself without 
it I A monstrous show !” 

‘‘ You’re right. Besides, the pope’s loss would be great- 
er than that of most ordinary men.” 

“ Much, much ? Let us take the dimensions, pope. 
Tliree inches from base to apex — from root to the same 
point — ” 

“ Four at least — the dromedary’s hump alone calls for 
two.” 

And in the spirit of unmeasured fun, the person who is 
called Ben by his companion, arming himself with a string, 
was actually about to subject the proboscis of the pope to 
rule and line, when the eyes of the latter, which had really 
exhibited some consternation before, were suddenly illumi- 
nated. He caught up the paper of supposed snuff which 
Ben had incautiously laid down upon the table and read the 
label upon it. 

Ah ! villains !” he exclaimed, ‘‘ at your old tricks. I 
should have known it. But I’ll pay you,” and starting up 
he proceeded to fling the yellow powder over the merry- 
makers. This led to a general scramble, over chairs and 
tables from one room to another. The office rang with 
shouts and laughter — the cries of confusion and exultation, 
and the tumbling of furniture. The atmosphere was filled 
with the floating particles of the medicine, and while the 
commotion was at its height, the party were joined unex- 
pectedly by a fourth person who suddenly made his appear- 
ance from the street. 

“ Ha, Beauchampe ! that you ? You are come in time. 
Grapple the pope there from behind, or he will suffocate us 
with Jesuit’s bark.” 

“ And a proper fate for such Jesuits as ye are,” exclaimed 
the pope, who, however, ceased the horse-play tlie moment 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


63 


that the name of the new-comer was mentioned, lie turned 
round and confronted him as he spoke, with a countenance 
in which dislike and apprehension were singularly mingled 
and very clearly expressed. 

“ Mr. Lowe, I am very glad to see you here,” said Beau- 
champe respectfully but modestly ; ‘‘ it saves me the neces- 
sity of calling upon you.” 

“ Calling upon me, sir ? For what ?” 

“ To apologize for my rudeness to you last night. I was 
not conscious of it, but some friends this morning tell me 
that I was rude.” 

“ That you were, sir ! You pulled my nose ! you did !” 

‘‘ I am sorry for it.” 

“ No man’s nose should be pulled, Mr. Beauchampe, with- 
out an object. If you had pulled my nose with an inten- 
tion, it might have been excused ; but, to pull it without 
design, is, it appears to me, decidedly inexcusable.” 

“ Decidedly, decidedly !” was the united exclamation of 
the two friends. 

‘‘ I am very sorry, indeed, Mr. Lowe. It was, sir, a very 
unwarrantable liberty, if I did such a thing, and I know 
not how to excuse it.” 

‘Mt Id not to be excused,” said the pope, or Lowe, which 
was his proper name, whose indignation seemed to increase 
in due proportion with the meekness and humility of the 
young man. 

“ A nose,” he continued, ‘‘ a nose is a thing perhaps quite 
as sacred as any other in a man’s possession.” 

“ Quite !” said the jesters with one breath. 

“ No man, as I have said before, should pull the nose of 
another, unless he had some distinct purpose in view. Now, 
sir, had you any such purpose ?” 

‘‘ Not that I can now recollect.” 

‘‘ Let me assist you, Beauchampe. You had a purpose. 
You declared it at the time. The purpose was even a be- 
nevolent one ; nay, something more than benevolent. The 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


t)4 

corkscrew had been mislaid, and you undertook to show to 
the pope — remember, the presiding ofificer of the society — 
that a cork might be drawn without any other instrument 
than the ordinary thumb and forefinger of a free white man. 
You illustrated the principle on the pope’s proboscis, and 
so cfiectually, that everybody was convinced, not only that 
the cork might be drawn in this way from every bottle, but 
that the same mode would be equally effectual in drawing 
any nose from any face. If this was not a purpose, and a 
laudable one, then I am no judge of the matter.” 

‘‘ But, Sharpe, my dear fellow,” said Lowe, “ you over- 
look the fact that Beauchampe has already admitted that 
'Le had no purpose.” 

“ Beauchampe is no witness in his own case, nor is it 
asked whether he has a purpose now, but whether he had 
one when the deed was done.” 

“ It was a drunken purpose then, colonel,” said Beau 
champe gravely. 

“ Drunk or sober, it matters not,” said the other ; “ it 
was not less a purpose, and I say a good one. The act 
was one pro bono publico; and I, moreover, contend that 
you did not pull the nose of our friend except in his official 
capacity. You pulled the nose, not of Daniel Lowe, Esq., 
but of the supreme pontiff’ of our microcosm ; and I really 
think that the pope does wrong to remember the event in 
his condition as a mere man. I am not sure that he does 
not violate that rule, seventeenth section, seventh clause, 
of the ‘ ordinance for the better preservation of the individ- 
uality of the fraternals,’ which provides that ‘ all persons, 
members, who shall betray the discoveries, new truths, and 
modern inventions, the progress of discovery and prosely- 
tism, the processes deemed essential to be employed,’ &c. 
You all remember the section, clause, and penalty.” 

“ Pshaw ! how can you make out that I violate the clause ? 
Wliat have I betrayed that should be secret ?” 

“ The new mode of extracting a cork from a bottle, which 


LAW IN DESHABILLK. 


<35 

our new member, Beaucliampe, displayed last evening, to 
the great edification of every fraternal present.” 

“ But it was no cork ! My nose — ” 

“ Symbolically, it was a cork, and your nose had no right 
to any resentments. But come, let us take the back room 
again and resume our seats, when we can discuss the matter 
more at leisure.” 

The motion was seconded, and the dusty particles of 
Jesuit’s bark having subsided from the atmosphere of the 
adjoining room, the parties drew chairs around the table 
as before, with a great appearance of comparative satis- 
faction. 


66 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER V. 

STUMP TACTICS. 

“Our village politicians, how they plan 
Their pushpin practice — for the rights of man V* 

The name of Beauchampe, of which our readers have 
heard nothing until this period, though it confers its name 
on our story, renders it necessary that we should devote a 
few moments in particular to him by whom it is borne. He 
was a young man, not more than twenty-one, tall, and of 
very handsome person. His eye was bright, and his whole 
face full of intelligence. His manners and features equal- 
ly denoted the modesty and the ingenuousness of youth. 
There was a gentleness in his deportment, however, which, 
though natural enough to his nature when in repose, was 
not its characteristic at other periods. He was of excita- 
ble constitution, passionate, and full of enthusiasm ; and, 
when aroused, not possessed of any powers of self-govern- 
ment or restraint. At present, and sitting with the rest 
about the table, his features were not only subdued and 
quiet, but they wore an air of profound humility and self- 
dissatisfaction, which was sufficiently evident to all. 

“ Our new member,” said one of the party, “ does not 
seem to have altogether got over the pains of initiation. 
Eh, Beauchampe ! how is it ? Does the head ache still ? 
Are the nerves still disordered ?” 

“ No, colonel, but I feel inexpressibly mean and sheep- 
isl). I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your club.” 


STUMP TACTICS. 


67 


“ Persuade ! it was not possible to avoid it. Every new 
graduate at the bar, to be recognised, must go through the 
initiation. Your regrets and repentance are treasonable.” 

“ I feel them nevertheless. I must have been a savage 
and a beast if what I am told be true. I never was drunk 
before in my life, and, club or no club, if I can help it, never 
will be drunk again. Indeed, I can not even now r.ndef~ 
stand it. I drank no great deal of wine.” 

“No, indeed, precious little — no more than would dash 
the brandy. You may thank Ben there for his adroitness 
in mingling the liquors.” 

“ I do thank him !” said the youth with increased gravi- 
ty, and a glance which effectually contradicted his words, 
addiessed to the offender. That worthy did not seem much 
annoyed, however. 

“ It was the demdest funny initiation I did ever see ! 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! I say, pope, how is your reverence’s nose ?” 

“ Let my nose alone, you grinning, big-whiskered, little 
creature !” 

“ Noses are sacred,” said Sharpe. 

“ To be pulled only with a purpose, Warham.” 

“ Symbolically,” pursued the first. 

“ By way of showing how corks are to be drawn.” 

“Oh, d — n you for a pair of blue devils !” exclaimed 
Lowe, starting to his feet, and shaking his fist at the 
offenders. ^ 

“ What, are you off, pope ?” demanded Sharpe. 

“ Yes, I am. There’s no satisfaction in staying with 
you.” 

“ Call at Filbert’s on your way, be sure.” 

“ For what, I want to know ?” 

“ Why, for his professional opinion. The worst sign, 
you know, is that numbness — ” 

“ Coldness.” 

“ Insensibility to Scotch snuff.” 

“ And remember, though your nose was pulled officially, 


68 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


it may yet be personally injured. The official pulling sim- 
ply acquits the offender : the liability of the nose is not les- 
sened by the legalization of the act of pulling.” 

‘‘ The devil take you fora pair of puppies,” cried the vic- 
tim with a queer expression of joint fun and vexation on 
his face. ‘‘ Of course, Mr. Beauchampe,” he said, turning 
to the young man, “ of course I don’t believe what tliese 
dogs say about my nose having suffered any vital injury ; 
but I must tell you, sir, that you hurt me very much last 
night ; and I feel the pain this morning.” 

“ I am truly sorry, Mr. Lowe, for what I have done. 
Truly, sincerely sorry. I assure you, sir, tliat your pain of 
body is nothing to that which I suffer in mind from having 
exposed myself, as I fear I did.” 

“ You did expose yourself and me too, sir. I trust you 
will never do so again. I advise you, sir, never do so 
again — never, unless you have a serious and sufficient mo- 
tive. Don’t let these fellows gull you with the idea that it 
was any justification for such an act that corks might be 
drawn from bottles in such a manner. Corks are not noses. 
Nobody can reasonably confound them. The shape, color, 
everything is different. There is nothing in the feel of the 
two to make one fancy a likeness. You are young, sir, and 
liable to be abused. Take the advice of an older man. 
Look into this matter for yourself, and you will agree with 
me not only that there is no likeness between a nose and a 
cork, but that, even admitting that your plan of drawing a 
cork from a bottle by the thumb and forefinger is a good 
one, it would be impossible to teach the process by exer- 
cising them upon a nose in the same manner. These young 
men are making fun of you, Mr. Beauchampe — they are, 
believe me !” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the offenders. “ Very good, 
your reverence.” 

‘‘ He ! he ! he ! you puppies. Do you think I mind your 
cackling !” and shaking his fist at the company, Mr. Lowe 


STUMP TACTICS. 


69 


took his departure, involuntarily stroking, with increased 
affection the nasal eminence which had furnished occasion 
for so much misplaced merriment. 

“ Well, Beauchampe,” said one of the companions, “you 
still seem grave about this business, but you should not. 
If ever a man may forget himself and be mad for a night, 
after the fashion of old Anacreon, it is surely the night of 
that day when he is admitted to the temple — when he takes 
his degree, and passes into the brotherhood of the bar.’’ 

“ Nay, on such a day least of all.” 

“ Pshaw, you were never born for a puritan. Old Thurs- 
ton, your parson teacher, has perverted you from your bet- 
ter nature. You are a fellow for fun and flash, high frolic, 
and the complete abandonment of blood. You look at this 
matter too seriously. Do I not tell you — I that have led 
you through all the thorny paths of legal knowledge — do I 
not tell you that your offence is venial. ‘ A good sherris- 
sack hath a twofold operation in it.’ ” 

“ Beauchampe found it fourfold,” said the bush-whiskered 
gentleman — “ that is, fourth proof; and he showed proofs 
enough of it. By Gad ! never did a man play such pleas- 
ant deviltries with his neighbor’s members. The nose- 
pulling was only a small part of his operations. It was 
certainly a most lovely Oitiation.” 

“ At least it’s all over, Mr. Coalter ; and as matters liave 
turned out, nothing more need be said on the subject ; but 
were it otherwise, I assure you that your practice upon my 
wine would be a dangerous experiment for you. I speak 
to you by way of warning, and not with the view to quarrel. 
I presume you meant nothing more than a jest ?” 

“ Dem the bit more,” said the other, half dissatisfied 
with himself at the concession, yet more than half convinced 
of the propriety of making it. “ Dcm the bit more. Sharpe 
will tell you that it’s a trick of the game — a customary 
trick — must be done by somebody, and was done by me, 
only because I like to see a dem’d fine initiation such as 


70 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


yours was, my boy. But, good morning, Beauchampe — 
good morning, Sharpe — I see you have business to do — 
some dem’d political business, 1 suppose ; and so I leave 
you. I’m no politician, but I see that Judge Tompkins is 
in the field against your friend Desha. Eh ! don’t you 
think I can guess the rest, Warham — eh ?” 

“ Sagacious fellow !” said Sharpe as the other disap- 
peared ; ‘‘ and, in this particular, not far from the mark. 
Tompkins is in the field against Desha, and will run him a 
tight race. I too must go into the field, Beauchampe. The 
party requires it, and though I have some reasons not to 
wish it just at this time, yet the matter is scarcely avoida- 
ble. I shall want every assistance, and I shall expect you 
to take the stump for me.” 

“ Whatever I can do I will.” 

“ You can do much. You do not know your own abili- 
ties on the stump. You will do famous things yet; and 
this is the time to try yourself. The success of a man in 
our country depends on the first figure. You are just ad- 
mitted ; something is expected of you. There can be no 
better opportunity to begin.” 

“ I am ready and willing.” 

“ Scarcely, mon ami. You are going to Simpson. You 
will get with sisters and mamma, and waste the daylight. 
Believe me this is no time to play at* mammets. We want 
every man. We will need them all.” 

“You shall find me ready. I shall not stay long at 
Simpson. But do not think that I will commit myself for 
Desha. I prefer Tompkins.” 

“ Well, but you will do nothing on that subject. You 
do not mean to come out for Tompkins ?” 

“ No ! I only tell you I will do nothing on the subject of 
the gubernatorial canvass. You are for the assembly. I 
will turn out in your behalf. But who is your opponent ?” 

“ One Calvert — William Calvert. Said to be a smart 
fellow. I never saw him, but he is spoken of as no mean 


STUMP TACTICS. 


71 


person. He writes well. His letter to the people of 

lies on the desk there. Put it in your pocket and read it 
at your leisure. It is well done — quite artful — but rather 
prosing and puritanical.’’ 

Beauchampe took up the pamphlet, passed his eyes over 
the page, and placed it without remark in his pocket. 

“ Barnabas,” continued Sharpe, “ who has seen this fellow 
Calvert, says he’s not to be despised. He’s a mere country 
lawyer, however, who is not known out of his own precinct. 
In taking the field now, he makes a miscalculation. I shall 
beat him very decidedly. But he has friends at work, who 
are able, and mine must not sleep. . Ho I understand you 
as promising to take the field against him ?” 

“ If he is so clever, he will need a stronger opponent. 
Why not do it yourself?” 

“ Surely, I will. I long for nothing better. But I can 
not be everywhere, and he and his friends are everywhere 
busy. I will seek him in his stronghold, and grapple with 
him tooth and nail ; but there will be auxiliary combatants, 
and you must be ready to take up the cudgel at the same 
time with some other antagonist. When do you leave 
town ?” 

“To-day — within the hour.” 

“ So soon ! Why I looked to have you to dinner. Mrs 
Sharpe expects you.” 

“ I am sorry to deprive myself of the pleasure of doing 
justice to her good things ; but I wrote my sisters and they 
will expect me.” 

“ Pshaw ! what of that ! The disappointment of a day 
only. You will be the more welcome from the delay.” 

“They will apprehend some misfortune — perhaps, my 
rejection — and I would spare them the mortification if noc 
the fear. You must make my compliments and excuse tc 
Mrs. S.” 

“ You will be a boy, Beauchampe. Let the girls wait 
day, and dine with me. You will mee+ some good fellowi 


72 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and get a glimpse into the field of war — see how we open 
the campaign, and so forth.’’ 

“ Temptations, surely, not to be despised ; but I confess 
to my boyhood in one respect, and will prove my manhood 
in another. I am able to resist your temptations — so much 
for my manhood. My boyhood makes me keep word with 
my sisters, and the shame be on my head.” 

‘‘ Shame, indeed ; but where shall we meet ?” 

“At Bowling Green — when you please.” 

“ Enough then on that head. I will write you when you 
are wanted. I confess to a strong desire, apart from my 
own interests, to see you on the stump ; and if I can ar- 
range it so, I will have you break ground against Calvert.” 

“ But that is not so easy. What is there against him ?” 

“ You will find out from his pamphlet. Nothing more 
easy. He is obscure, that is certain. Little known among 
the people. Why? For a good reason — he is a haughty 
aristocrat — a man who only knows them when he wants 
their votes !” 

“ Is that the case ?” 

“ Simple fellow ! we must make it appear so. It may 
be or not — what matter? That he is shy, and reserved, 
and unknown, is certain. It’s just as likely he is so, be- 
cause of his pride, as anything else. Perhaps he’s a fellow 
of delicate feelings ! This is better for us, if you can make 
it appear so. People don’t like fellows of very delicate 
feelings. That alone would be conclusive against him. If 
we could persuade him to wear silk gloves, now, it would 
be only necessary to point them out on the canvass, to turn 
rhe stomachs of the electors, and their votes with their 
stomachs. They would throw him up instantly. 

Beauchampe shook his head. The other interpreted the 
mouion incorrectly. 

What ! you do not believe it. Never doubt. The fact 
is certain. Such would be the case. Did you ever hear 
the story of Barnabas in his first campaign ?” 


STUMP TACTICS. 


73 


“ No ! — not that I recollect.” 

“ He was stumping it through your own county of Simj> 
son. There were two candidates against him. One of 
them stood no chance. That was certain. The other, 
liowever, was generally considered to be quite as strong if 
not stronger than Barnabas. Now Barnabas, in those days, 
was something of a dandy. He wore fine clothes, a long- 
tail blue, a steeple-crowned beaver, and silk-gloves. Old 
Ben Jones, his uncle, saw him going out on the canvass in 

this unseasonable trim ; told him he was a d d fool ; that 

the very coat, and gloves, and hat, would lose him the elec- 
tion. ‘ Come in with me,’ said the old buck. He did so, 
and Jones rigged him out in a suit of buckskin breeches ; 
gave him an old slouch tied with a piece of twine ; made 
him put on a common homespun roundabout ; and sent him 
on the campaign witli these accoutrements.” 

“ A mortifying exchange to Barnabas.” 

“ Not a bit. The fellow was so eager for election, that 
he’d have gone without clothes at all, sooner than have 
missed a vote. But one thing the old man did not remem- 
ber — the silk-gloves — and Barnabas had nearly reached 
the muster-ground before he recollected that he had them 
on his hands. He took ’em off instantly, and thrust ’em 
into his pocket. When he reached the ground, he soon 
discovered the wisdom of old Jones’s proceedings. He 
was introduced to his chief opponent, and never was there 
a more rough-and-tumble-looking ruffian under the sun. 
Barnabas swears that he had not washed his face and hands 
for a week. His coat was out at the elbows, and though 
made of cloth originally both blue and good, it was evi- 
dently not made for the present wearer. His breeches 
were common homespun ; and his shoes, of yellow-belly, 
were gaping on both feet. He had on stockings, however. 
Barnabas looked and felt quite genteel alongside of him ; 
but he felt his danger also. He saw that the appearance 
of the fellow was very much in his favor. There was al- 

4 


74 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


ready a crowd around him ; and, when he talked, his words 
were of that rough sort which is supposed to indicate the 
true staple of popular independence. As there was nothing 
much in favor or against any of the candidates, unless it 
was that one of them — not Barnabas — was suspected of 
horse -stealing, all that the speakers could do was to prove 
their own republicanism, and the aristocracy of the oppo- 
nent. Appearances would help or dissipate this charge ; 
and Barnabas saw, shabby as he was, that his rival was 
still shabbier. A bright thought took him that night. 
Fumbling in his pockets while they were drinking at the 
hotel, he felt his silk-gloves. What does he do, but, going 
to his room, he takes out his pocket inkstand and pen, and 
marks in large letters the initials of his opponent upon 
them. This done, he watches his chance, and the next 
morning when they were about to go forth to the place of 
gathering, he slips the gloves very slyly into the other fel- 
low’s pocket. The thing worked admirably. In the midst 
of the speech, Joel Peguay — for that was his rival’s name 
— endeavoring to pull out a ragged cotton pocket-hand- 
kerchief, drew out the gloves, which fell behind him on the 
ground. Barnabas was on the watch, and, pointing the 
eyes of the assembly to the tokens of aristocracy, ex- 
claimed — 

‘‘ ‘ This, gentlemen, is a proof of the sort of democracy 
wliich Joel Peguay practises.^ 

A universal shout, mixed with hisses, arose. Peguay 
looked round, and, when he was told what was the matter, 
answered witii sufficient promptness, and a look of extraor- 
dinary exultation : — 

“ ‘ Fellow-citizens, ain’t this only another proof of the 
truth of what I’m a-telling you ? — for, look you, them nasty 
fine things come out of this coat-pocket, did they ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes ! we saw them drop, Joel,’ was the cry from 
fifty voices. 

“‘Very good,’ said Joel, nowise discomfited, ‘and the 


STUMP TACTICS. 


75 


coat was borrowed, for this same occasion, from Tom Mead- 
ows. I hain’t a decent coat of my own, my friends, to come 
before you ^ none but a round jacket, and that’s tore down 
in the back — and so, you see, I begged Tom Meadows for 
the loan of his’n, and I reckon the gloves must be his’n too, 
since they fell out of the pocket.’ 

“ This explanation called for a triumphant shout from 
the friends of Peguay, and the affair promised to redound 
still more in favor of the speaker, when Barnabas, shaking 
his head gravely, and picking up the gloves, which he held 
from him as if they had been saturated in the dews of the 
bohon upas, drew the eyes of those immediately at hand to 
the letters which they bore. 

“ ‘ I am sorry,’ said he, ‘ to interrupt the gentleman ; but 
there is certainly some mistake here. These gloves are 
marked J. P., which stands for Joel Peguay, and not Tom 
Meadows. See for yourselves, gentlemen — you all can 
read, I know — here’s J. P. I’m not much of a reader, 
being too poor to have much of an education ; but I know 
pretty much what you all do, that if these gloves belonged 
to Tom Meadows, they would have been marked T. M. : 
the T for Tom, and the M for Meadows. I don’t mean 
to say that they are not Tom’s ; but I do say that it’s very 
strange that Tom Meadows should write his name Joel 
Peguay. I say it’s strange, gentlemen — very strange — 
that’s all !’ 

“And that was enough. There was no more shouting 
from the friends of Peguay. He was completely con- 
founded. He denied and disputed, of course ; but the 
proofs were too strong, and Barnabas had done liis part of 
the business with great skill and adroitness. Joel Peguay 
descended from the stump, swearing vengeance against 
Meadows, who, he took for granted, had contrived the ex- 
hibition secretly, only to defeat him. No doubt a fierce 
feud followed between the parties, but Barnabas was elect- 
ed by a triumphant vote.” 


76 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ And do you really think, colonel,’’ said Beauchampe, 
that this silly proceeding had any effect in producing the 
result ?” 

“ Silly, indeed ! By my soul, such silly things, Master 
Beauchampe, have upset empires. The tumbling of an old 
maid’s cap has done more mischief. I can tell you, from 
my own experience, that a small matter like this has turned 
the scale in many a popular election. Barnabas believes 
to this day that he owes his success entirely to that little 
ruse de guerre. 

“ I know not how to believe it.” 

‘‘ Because you know not yet that little, strange, mousing, 
tiger-like, capricious, obstinate, foolish animal, whom we 
call man. When you know him more, you will wonder 
less.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Beauchampe. “ At all events, I can 
only say that, while I will turn out for you and do all I can 
to secure your election as in duty bound, I will endeavor 
to urge your claims on other grounds.” 

“ As you please, my good fellow. Convince them that I 
am a patriot, and a prophet, and the best man for them, 
and I care nothing by what process it is done. And if you 
can lay bare the corresponding deficiencies of mine oppo- 
nent — this fellow Calvert — it is a part of the same policy, 
to be sure.” 

“ But not so obviously,” replied the other, “ for as yet, 
you remember, we know nothing of him, and can not ac- 
cordingly pronounce upon his deficiencies.” 

“ You forget — his aristocracy!” 

“ Ah ! that is conjectural, you^know.” 

“ Granted,” said the other, “ but what more do you want? 
A plausible conjecture is the very sort of argument in a 
popular election.” 

“ But scarcely an honorable one.” 

“ Honorable ! poh ! poh ! poh I Old Thurston has seri- 
ously diseased you, Beauchampe. We most undertake 


STUMP TACTICS. 77 

your treatment for this weakness — this boyish weakness. 
It is a boyish weakness, Beauchampe.’’ 

“ Perhaps so, but it makes my strength.’’ 

“It will always keep you feeble — certainly keep you 
down in the political world.” 

The young man smiled. The other, speaking hastily, 
continued : — 

“ But this need not be discussed at present. Enough 
that you will take the field, and be ready at my summons. 
Turn the state of parties in your mind, and that will give 
you matter enough for the stump. Read that letter of 
Calvert ; I doubt not it will give you more than sufficient 
material. From a hasty glance, I see that he distrusts the 
people ; that^ as a stern democrat, you can resent happily. 
I leave that point to you. You will regard that opinion as 
a falsehood ; I think it worse — a mistake in policy. It is 
to this same people that he addresses his claims. How far 
his opinion is an impertinence may be seen in his appeal to 
the very judgment which he decries. This, to my mind, is 
conclusive against his own. But this must not make us 
remiss. I will write to you when the tine comes, and at 
intervals, should there be anything new to communicate. 
But you had better stay to dinner. Seriously, my wife ex- 
pects you.” 

“ Excuse me to her — but I must go. I so long to see 
my sisters, and they will be on the lookout for me. I have 
already written them.” 

With a few words more, and the young lawyer separated 
from his late legal preceptor. When he was gone, the lat- 
ter stroked his chin complacently as he soliloquized : — 

“ He will do to break ground with this fellow Calvert. 
He is ardent, soon roused ; and if I am to judge of Calvert 
from his letter, he is a stubborn colt, whose heels are very 
apt to annoy any injudicious assailant. Ten to one, that, 
with his fiery nature, Beauchampe finds cause of quarrel 
in any homely truth. They may fight, and this hurts me 


78 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


nothing. At least, Beauchampe may be a very good foil 
for the first strokes of this new enemy. Barbanas says ho 
is to be feared. If so, he must be grappled with fearlessly. 
There is no hope else. At all events, I will see, by his 
ssue with Beauchampe, of what stuff he is made. Some- 
thing in that. And yet, is all so sure with this boy ? He 
has his whims ; is sometimes suspicious ; obstinate as a mule 
when roused ; and has some ridiculous notions about virtue, 
and all that sort of thing. At least, he must be managed 
cautiously — very cautiously !” 

We leave the office of Colonel Warham P. Sharpe for a 
while, to attend the progress of the young man of whom he 
was speaking. 


BEAUCHAMPS AT HOMB. 


79 


CHAPTER VI. 

BEAUCHAMPS AT HOME. 

Beauchamps was on his way to the maternal mansioii 
We have already endeavored to afford the reader some 
idea of the character of this person. It does not need that 
we should dilate more at large on the abstract constituents 
of his nature. We may infer that his mind was good, from 
the anxiety which his late teacher displayed to have it put 
in requisition in his behalf during the political campaign 
which was at h^nd. The estimate of his temperament by 
the same person will also be sufficient for us. That he was 
of high, manly bearing, and honorable purpose, we may 
also conclude from the share which he took in the prece- 
ding dialogue. 

Of his judgment, however, doubts may be entertained. 
With something more than the ardor of youth, Beauchampe 
had all of its impatience. He was of that fiery mood, when 
aroused, which too effectually blinds the possessor to the 
strict course of propriety. His natural good sense was but 
too often baffled by this impetuosity of his temper; and, 
though in the brief scene in which he has been suffered to 
appear, we have beheld nothing in his deportment which 
was not becomingly modest and deliberate, we are con- 
strained to confess that the characteristic of much delibei> 
ation is not natural to him, and was induced, in the present 
instance, by a sense of his late elevation to a new and cx- 


80 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


acting profession the fact that he was in the presence of 
his late teacher ; and that he had, the night before, partici- 
pated, however unconsciously, in a debauch, of the perform- 
ances of which he was really most heartily ashamed. His 
manner has therefore been subdued, but only for a while. 
We shall see him before long under very different aspects ; 
betraying all the ardor and impetuosity of his disposition, 
and, as is usual in such cases, not always in that way which 
is most favorable to the shows of judgment. 

Beauchampe was the second son of a stanch Kentucky 
farmer. lie had received quite as good an education as 
the resources of the country at that time could afford. 
This education was not very remarkable, it is true ; but, 
with the advantage of a lively nature and retentive mem- 
ory, it brought into early exercise all the qualities of his 
really excellent intellect. He became a good English 
speaker, and a tolerable Latin scholar. He read with 
avidity, and studied with industry ; and, at the age of 
twenty-one, was admitted to the practice of law in the 
courts of the state. This probation over, with the natural 
feeling of a heart which the world has not yet utterly 
weaned from the affections and dependencies of its youth, 
he was hurrying home to his mother and sisters, to receive 
their congratulations, and share with them the pride and 
delight which such an occasion of his return would natu- 
rally inspire. 

Hitherto, his mother and sisters have had all his affec- 
tions. The blind deity has never disturbed his repose, di- 
verted his eyes from these objects of his regard, or inter- 
fered with his mental cogitations. Dreams of ambition were 
in his mind, but not yet with sufficient strength or warmth 
as to subdue the claims of that domestic love which the 
kindnesses of a beloved mother, and the attachments of dear 
sisters, had impressed upon his heart. He had his images 
of beauty, perhaps, along with his images of glory, but they 
were rather the creations of a lively fancy, in moments of 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 81 

mental abstraction, than any more real impressions upon 
the unwritten tablets of his soul. 

These were still fair and smooth. His life had not been 
touched by many griefs or annoyances. His trials had 
been few, his mortifications brief. He was not yet con- 
scious of any wants which would induce feelings of care and 
anxiety ; and, with a spirit gradually growing lighter and 
more elastic, as the number of miles rapidly diminished be- 
neath the feet of his horse, he forgot that he was alone in 
his journeyings ; a light heart and a lively fancy brought 
him pleasant companions enough, that beguiled the time, 
and cheered the tediousness of his journey. The youth was 
thinking of his home — and what a thought is that in the 
bosom of youth ! The old cottage shrunk up in snug little- 
ness among the venerable guardian trees, and the green 
grass-plat and the half-blind house-dog, and a thousand ob- 
jects besides, forced themselves, through the medium of his 
memory, upon his delighted imagination. Then he beheld 
his sisters hurrying out to meet him — Jane running for 
dear life, half mad, and shouting back to Mary, the more 
grave sister, who slowly followed. Jane shrieking witli 
laughter, and Mary with not a word, but only her extended 
hand and her tears ! 

Strange ! that even at such a moment as this, while these 
were the satisfying images in his mind, there should intrude 
another which should either expel these utterly, or should 
persuade him that they were not enough to satisfy his mind 
or confer happiness upon his heart. Why, when, in his 
dreaming fancy, these dear sisters appeared so lovely and 
were so fond, why should another form — itself a fancy — 
arise in the midst, which should make him heedless and 
forgetful of all others, and fixed only on itself! The eye 
of the youth grew sadder as he gazed and felt. He no 
longer spurred his steed impatiently along the path, but, 
forgetful in an instant of his progress, he mused upon tlie 
heart’s ideal, which a passing fancy had presented, and 
4 * 


82 


BEADCHAMPB. 


all the bright sweet domestic forms vanished from his 
sight. 

The feeling of Beauchampe was natural enough. He felt 
it to be so. It was an instinct which every heart of any 
sensibility must feel in progress of time ; even though the 
living object be yet wanting to the sight, upon which the 
imagination may expend its own colors in seeking to estab- 
lish the identity between the sought and the found. 

But was it not late for him to feel this instinct for the 
first time ? Why had he not felt it before ? Why, just at 
that moment — just when his fancy had invoked around him 
all the images which had ever brought him happiness be- 
fore — forms which had supplied all his previous wants — 
smiles and tones which had left nothing which he could de- 
sire — why, just then, should that foreign instinct arise and 
expel, as with a single glance, the whole family of joys 
known to his youthful heart. Expelling them, indeed, but 
only to awaken him to the conviction of superior joys and 
possessions far more valuable. 

It was an instinct, indeed ; and never was youthful mind 
so completely diverted, in a single instant, from the consid- 
eration of a long succession of dear thoughts, to that of one, 
now dearer perhaps than all, but which had never made 
one of his thoughts before. 

He now remembered that, of all his schoolmates and 
youthful associates, there had not been one, who had not 
professed a passionate flame for some smiling damsel in his 
neighborhood. Among his brother students-at-law, that 
they should love was quite as certain as that they should 
have frequent attacks of the passion, and of course, on each 
occasion, for some different object. 

He alone had gone unscathed. He alone had run the 
gauntlet of smiles and glances, bright eyes and lovely 
cheeks, without detriment. The thought had never dis- 
turbed him then, when he was surrounded by beauty ; why 
should it now, when no apparent object of passion was nigh 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 


83 


him, and when but a small distance from his mother’s farm 
he had every reason to think only of that and the dear rel- 
atives which there awaited him? There was a fatality 
in it ! 

At that moment he was roused from his reveries by a 
pistol-shot which sounded in the wood a little distance be- 
fore him. 

The circumstance was a singular one. The wood was 
very close and somewhat extensive. He knew the spot 
very well. It was scarcely more than a mile from his moth- 
er’s cottage. He knew of no one in the neighborhood who 
practised pistol-shooting ; but, on this head, he was not ca- 
pable to judge. He had been absent from his home for 
two years. There might — there must have been changes. 
At all events no mischief seemed to be afoot. There was 
but one shot. He himself was safe, and he rode forward, 
relieved somewhat of his reveries, at a trifling increase of 
speed. 

The road led him round the wood in which the shot had 
been heard, making a sweep like a crescent, in order to 
avoid some rugged inequalities of the land. As he followed 
its windings he was suddenly startled to see, just before 
him, a female, well-dressed, tall, and of a carriage unusu- 
ally firm and majestic. Under her arm she carried a small 
bundle wrapped up in a dark silk pocket-handkerchief. 

She crossed the road hastily, and soon buried herself out 
of sight in the woods opposite. She gave him but a single 
glance in passing, but this glance enabled him to distin- 
guish features of peculiar brilliancy and beauty. The mo- 
ment after, she was gone from Sight, and it seemed as if 
the pathway grew suddenly dark. Her sudden appear- 
ance and rapid transition was like that of a gleam of sum- 
mer lightning. 

Involuntarily he spurred his horse forward, and his eyes 
peered keenly into the wood which she had entered. He 
could still see the white glimmer of her garments. He 


84 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


stopped, like one bewildered, to watch. At one moment 
he felt like dismounting and darting in pursuit of her. But 
such impertinence might receive tlie rebuke which it merit- 
ed. She did not seem to need any service, and on no other 
pretence could he have pursued. 

He grew more and more bewildered while he gazed, and 
mused upon the incident. This vision was so strange and 
startling ; and so singularly in unison with the fancies 
which had just before possessed his mind. That his heart 
should now, for the first time, present him with an ideal 
form of attraction and delight, and that, a moment after, a 
form of beauty should appear, so unexpectedly, in so unu- 
sual a place, was at least a very strange coincidence. 

Nothing could be more natural than that the fancy of the 
young man should find these two forms identical. It is an 
easy matter for the ardent nature to deceive itself. But 
here another subject of doubt presented itself to the mind 
of Beauchampe. Was this last vision more certainly real 
than the former ? It was no longer to be seen. Had he 
seen it except in his mind’s eye, where the former bright 
ideal had been called up ? So sudden had been the ap- 
pearance, so rapid the transition, that he turned from the 
spot now half doubting its reality. Slowly he rode away, 
musing strangely, and we may add sadly — often looking 
back, and growing more and more bewildered as he mused, 
until relieved and diverted by the more natural feelings 
of the son and brother, as, the prospect opening before his 
eyes, he beheld the farmstead of his mother. 

In the doorway of the old cottage steod the venerable 
woman, while the two girls were approaching, precisely as 
his fancy had shown them, the one bounding and crying 
aloud, the other moving slowly, and with eyes which were 
already moist with tears. They had seen him before he 
had sufficiently awakened from his reveries to behold them. 

Ah, Jane — dear Mary !” were the words of the youth, 
throwing himself from the horse and severally clasping 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 


85 


them in his arms. The former laughed, sang, danced, .and 
capered. The latter clung to the neck of her brother, sob- 
bing as heartily as if they were about to separate. 

“Why, what's Mary crying for, 1 wonder?” said the 
giddy girl. 

“ Because my heart’s so full, 1 must cry,” murmured the 
otlier. Taking an arm of each in his own, Beauchampe 
led them to the old lady, whose crowning embrace was be- 
stowed with the warmth of one who clasps and confesses 
the presence of her idol. 

We pass over the first ebullitions of domestic love. Most 
people can imagine these. It is enough to say that ours is 
a family of love. They have been piously brought up. 
Mrs. Beauchampe is a woman of equal benignity and intel- 
ligence. They have their own little world of joy in and 
among themselves. The daughters are single-hearted and 
gentle, and no small vanities and petty strifes interfere to 
diminish the confidence in one, and another, and themselves, 
which brings to them the hourly enjoyment of the all-in-all 
content. It will not be hard to fancy the happiness of the 
household in the restoration of its tall and accomplished 
son — tall and handsome, and so kind, and so intelligent, 
and just now made a lawyer too ! Jane was half beside 
herself, and Mary’s tears were constantly renewed as they 
looked at the manly brother, and thought of these things. 

“ But why did you ride so slow, Orville ?” demanded 
Jane, as she sat upon his knee and patted his cheek. Mary 
was playing with his hair from behind. “ You came at a 
snail’s pace, and didn’t seem to see anybody ; and there was 
I hallooing to make you hear, and all for nothing.” 

“ Don’t worry Orville with your questions, Jane,” said 
the more sedate Mary. “ He was tired, perhaps — ” 

“ Or his heart was too full also,” said Jane, interrupting 
her mischievously. “ But it’s not either of these, I’m sure, 
Orville, for I know horseback don’t tire you, and I’m sure 
your heart’s not so very full, for you hav’n’t shed a tear 


86 


BEAUCHAMPE 


yet. No, no ! it’s something else, for you not onl^ rode 
slow, but you kept looking behind you all the while, as if 
you were expecting somebody. Now, who were you look- 
ing for? Tell me, tell Jane, dear brother!” 

Now you hit it, Jane 1 The reason I rode slowly and 
looked behind me — mind me, I rode pretty fast until I 
came almost in sight of home — was, because I did expect 
to see some one coming behind me, though I had not much 
cause to expect it either.” 

“ Who was it ?” 

“ That’s the question. Perhaps you can tell mef' and, 
with these words, the young man proceeded to relate the 
circumstance, already described, of the sudden advent of 
that bright vision which had so singularly taken the place, 
in our hero’s mind, of his heart’s ideal. 

“ It must be Miss Cooke, mother,” said the girls with 
one breath. 

“ And who is Miss Cooke ?” 

“Oh I that’s the mystery. She’s a sort of queen, I’m 
thinking,” said Jane, “ or she wants you to think her one, 
which is more likely.” 

“Jane! Jane!” said Mary, who was the younger sister, 
in reproachful accents. 

“ Well, what am I saying, but what’s the truth ? Don’t 
she carry herself like a queen ? Isn’t she as proud and 
stately as if she was better than anybody else ?” 

“ If she’s a queen, it’s a tragedy-queen,” said the graver 
sister. “ I don’t deny that she’s very stately, but then I’m 
sure she’s also very unhappy.” 

“I don’t believe in her unhappiness at all. I can’t 
think any person so very unhappy who carries herself so 
proudly.” 

“ Pride itself may be a cause of unhappiness, Jane,” said 
the mother. 

“ Yes, mamma, but are we to sympathize with it, I want 
to know ?” 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 


87 


“ Perhaps ! It is not less to be pitied because the owner 
has no such notion. But your brother is waiting to hear 
something of Miss Cooke, and, instead of telling him luho 
she is, you're telling him what she is.” 

“ And no better way, perhaps,” said the brother. “ But 
do you tell me, Mary : Jane is quite too much given to 
scandal.” 

“ Oh, brother !” said Jane. 

“ Too true, Jane ; but go on, Mary, and let us have a key 
to this mystery. Who is Miss Cooke ?” 

“ She’s a young lady — ” 

“ Very pretty ?” 

“ Very ! She came here about two years ago — just after 
you went from Parson Thurston to study law — she and 
her mother, and they took the old place of Farmer Davis. 
They came from some other part of Simpson, so I have 
heard, and bought this place from Widow Davis. They 
have a few servants, and are comfortably fixed ; and Mrs. 
Cooke is quite a chatty body, very silly in some things, but 
fond of going about among the neighbors. Her daughter, 
who is named Anna, though I once heard the old lady call 
her Margaret — ” 

“ Margaret Anna, perhaps — she may have two names,” 
said the brother. 

“ Very likely ; but the daughter is not sociable. On the 
contrary, she rather avoids everybody. You do not often 
see her when you go there, and she has never been here 
but once, and that shortly after her first arrival. As Jane 
says, she is not only shy, but stately. Jane thinks it pride, 
but I do not agree with her. I rather think that it is owing 
to a natural dignity of mind, and to manners formed under 
other circumstances ; for she never smiles, and there is such 
a deep look of sadness about her eyes, that I can’t help 
believing her to be very unhappy. I sometimes think that 
phe has probably been disappointed in love.” 

“Yes, Mary thinks the strangest things about her. She 


88 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


says she’s sure that she’s been engaged, and that her lover 
has played her false, and deserted her.” 

“ Oh, Jane, you mistake ; I said I thought he might have 
been killed in a duel, or — ” 

“ Or that he deserted her ; for that matter, Mary, you’ve 
been having a hundred conceits about her ever since she 
came here.” 

‘‘ She is pretty, you say, Mary ?” asked the young man, 
who by this time had ejected Jane from his knee, and trans- 
ferredTier younger sister to the same place. 

“ Pretty ? she is beautiful.” 

“ I can’t see it for my part,” said Jane, “ with her solemn 
visage, and great dark eyes, that seem always sharp like 
daggers ready to run you through.” 

‘‘ She is beautiful, brother, very beautiful, but Jane don’t 
like her because she thinks her proud. She’B as beautiful 
in her face as she is noble in her figure. Her stateliness, 
indeed, arises, I think, from the symmetry and perfect pro- 
portion of her person ; for when she moves, she does not 
seem to be at all conscious that she is stately. Her move- 
ments are very natural, as if she had practised them all her 
life. And they say, mother, that she’s very smart.” 

“Who says, sister?” cried Jane — ‘‘who but old Mrs. 
Fisher, and only because she saw her fixing a bushel of 
books upon the shelves at her first coming !” 

“ No, Jane ; Judge Crump told me that he spoke to her, 
and that he had never believed a woman could be so sensi- 
ble till then.” 

“That shows he's a poor judge. Who’d take old 
Crump's opinion about a woman’s sense? I’m sure 1 
wouldn’t.” 

“ But Miss Cooke is very sensible, brother. Jane does 
dislike her so !” 

“ Well, supposing she is sensible, it’s only what she ought 
to be by this time. She’s old enough to have the sense of 
two young women at least.” 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 


89 


‘‘ Old !” exclaimed Beauchampe. “ The lady I saw was 
not old, certainly.” 

The suggestion seemed to give the young man some 
annoyance, which the gentle-hearted Mary hastened to re- 
move. 

“ She is not old, Orville. Jane, how can you say so ? 
You know that Miss Cooke can hardly be over twenty-one 
or two, even if she’s that.” 

“ Well, and ain’t that old ? You, Mary, are sixteen only, 
and I’m but seventeen and three months. But I’m certain 
she’s twenty-five if she’s a day.” 

The subject is one fruitful of discussion where ladies are 
concerned. Beauchampe, having experience of the two 
sisters, quietly sat and listened ; and, by the use of a mod- 
erate degree of patience, soon contrived to learn all that 
could be known of that neighbor who, it appears, had occa- 
sioned quite as great a sensation in the bosoms of the sis- 
ters, though of a very different sort, as her momentary pres- 
ence had inspired in his own. The two girls, representing 
extremes, were just the persons to give him a reasonable 
idea of the real facts in the case of the person under dis- 
cussion. It may be unnecessary to add that the result was, 
to increase the mystery, and heighten the curiosity which 
the young man now felt in its solution. 


90 


BEAUCHAMPlSi. 


CHAPTER VII. 

PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 

When the first sensations following the return of our 
hero to his home and family had somewhat subsided, the 
enthusiastic and excitable nature of the former naturally 
led him to dwell upon the image of that strange lady, 
whose sudden appearance seemed to harmonize so singu- 
larly with the ideal of his waking dream. The very morn- 
ing after his arrival, he sallied forth at an early hour, with 
his gun in hand, ostensibly with a view to birding, but re- 
ally to catch some glimpse of the mysterious peison. For 
this purpose, as all the neighborhood and neighboring coun- 
ty was familiar to him, he traversed the hundred routes to 
and from the farmstead of old Davis, which the stranger 
now occupied, and wasted some precious hours, in which 
neither his heart nor his gun found game, in exploring the 
deep wood whence the pistol-shot, the day before, had first 
challenged his attention. 

But no bright vision blessed his search that day. He 
found nothing to interest his mind or satisfy his curiosity, 
unless it were a tree which he discovered barked with bul- 
lets, where some person had evidently been exercising, and 
— assuming the instrument to have been a pistol — with a 
singular degree of success. The discovery did not call for 
the thought of a single moment ; and, contenting himself 
with the conjecture that some young rifleman was thus 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 


91 


‘‘teaching the young idea how to shoot,’ ^ he turned off, 
and, with some weariness, and more disappointment, made 
his way, birdless, to his cottage. 

But the disappointment rather increased than lessened 
his curiosity ; and, before two days had passed, he had 
acquired boldness enough to advance so nearly to the dwel- 
ling of Miss Cooke, as, sheltered beneath some friendly 
shade-trees, to see the passers by the window, and on one 
or more occasions to catch a glimpse of the one object for 
whom all these pains were taken. 

These glimpses, it may be said, served rather to inflame 
than to satisfy his curiosity. He saw enough to convince 
him that Mary was right, and Jane wrong; that he was 
not deceived in his first impression of the exceeding loveli- 
ness of the mysterious stranger; that she was beautiful 
beyond any comparison that he could make — of a rare, 
rich, and excelling beauty : and slowly he returned from 
his wanderings, to muse upon the means by which he should 
arrive at a more intimate knowledge of the fair one, who 
was represented to be as inaccessible as she was fair — like 
one of those unhappy damsels of whom we read in old ro- 
mances, locked up in barred and gloomy towers, lofty and 
well guarded, whose charms, if they were the incentives to 
chivalry and daring, were quite as often the cruel occasion 
of bloody strife and most unfortunate adventure. 

The surpassing beauty of our heroine, so strangely coupled 
with her sternness of deportment and loneliness of habit, 
naturally enough brought into activity the wild imagination 
and fervent temperament of our young lawyer. By these 
means her beauty was heightened, and the mystery which 
enveloped her was made the parent of newer sources of 
attraction. Before three days had passed, his sisters had 
discovered that his thought was running only on their fair, 
strange neighbor ; and at length, baffled in his efforts to 
encounter the mysterious lady in his rambles, he was fain 
to declare himself more openly at home, and to insist that 


92 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Ins sisters should call upon Miss Cooke and her mother, 
and invite them to tea. 

This was done accordingly, but with only partial success. 
Mrs. Cooke came, but not the daughter, who sent an ex- 
cuse. Beauchampe paid his court to the old lady, whom 
he found very garrulous and very feeble-minded ; but though 
she spoke with great freedom on almost every other subject, 
he remarked that she shrunk suddenly into silence when- 
ever reference was made to her daughter. 

On this point everything tended to increase the mystery, 
and, of course, the interest. He attended the mother home 
that night, in the hope to be permitted to see the daughter ; 
but though, when invited to enter, he did so, he found the 
tete-a-tete with the old lady — a half-hour which curiosity 
readily gave to dullness — unrelieved by the presence of 
the one object for whom he sought. But a well-filled book- 
case, which met his eyes in the hall, suggested to him a 
mode of approach in future of which he did not scruple to 
avail himself. He complimented the old lady on the ex- 
tent of her literary possessions. Such a collection was not 
usual at that time among the country-houses of that region. 
He spoke of his passion for books, and how much he would 
be pleased to be permitted to obtain such as he wanted from 
the collection before him. 

The old lady replied that they were her daughter's, who 
was also passionately fond of books ; that she valued her 
collection very highly — they were almost her only friends 
— but she had no doubt that Mr. Beauchampe would readily 
receive her permission to take any that he desired for pe- 
rusal. 

Beauchampe expressed his gratitude, but judiciously de- 
clined to make his selection that night. The permission 
necessarily furnished the sanction for a second visit, for 
which he accordingly prepared himself. He suffered a day, 
however, to pass — a forbearance that called for the exer- 
cise of no small degree of fortitude — before repeating his 


PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 


n 

visit. The second morning, however, he went. He saw 
the young lady, for a brief instant, at the window, while 
making his approaches — but that was all ! He was admit- 
ted, was received by the mother, treated with great kind- 
ness, and spent a full hour — how we say not — in company 
with the venerable and voluble dame. She accorded him 
the permission of her daughter to use any book in the col- 
lection, but the daughter herself did not appear. He mus- 
tered courage enough to ask for her, but the inquiry was 
civilly evaded. He was finally compelled, after lingering 
to the last, and hoping against hope, to take his departure 
without attaining the real object of his visit. He selected 
a volume, however, not that he cared to read it, but simply 
because the necessity of returning it would afford him the 
occasion and excuse for another visit. 

The proverb tells us that grass never grows beneath the 
footsteps of true love. It is seldom suffered to grow be- 
neath those of curiosity. Our hero either read, or pre- 
tended to have read, the borrowed volume, in a very short 
space of time. The next morning found him witli it be- 
neath his arm, and on his way to the cottage of the Cookes. 
The grave looks of his mother, and the sly looks of his sis- 
ters, were all lost upon him ; and, pluming himself some- 
what upon the adroitness which disguised the real purpose 
of his visits, he flattered himself that he should still attain 
the object which he sought, without betraying the interest 
which he felt. 

Of course, he himself did not suspect the real motives by 
which he was governed. That a secret passion stirring in 
his breast had anything to do with that interest which he 
felt to know the strange lady, was by no means obvious to 
his own mind. 

Whatever may have been the motive by which his con- 
duct was influenced, it did not promise to be followed by 
any of the results which he desired. His second morning- 
call was not more fortunate than the first. Approaching, 


94 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


he saw the outline of Miss Cooke’s person at an upper wiix. 
dow, but she instantly disappeared ; and he was received 
below, and wholly entertained, by the good old mother. 

It may readily be imagined that, with a fervent, passion- 
ate nature, such as Beauchampe’s, this very baffling of his 
desires was calculated to stimulate and strengthen them. 
He was a man of equally strong impulses and indomitable 
will. The necessary creature of such qualities of mind is 
a puritan tenacity of purpose — a persevering energy, which 
ceases altogether, finally, to sleep in the work of conquest ; 
or, at least, converts even its sleeping hours into tasks of 
thought, and wild, vague dreams of modes and operations, 
by which the work of conquest is to be carried on. Tlie 
momentary glimpses of the damsel’s person, which the ar- 
dent youth was permitted to obtain, still kept alive in his 
mind the strong impression which her beauty had originally 
made. We do not insinuate that this exhibition was de- 
signed by the lady herself for any such object. Such might 
be the imputation — nay, was, in after-days, by some of her 
charitable neighbors — but we have every reason for think- 
ing otherwise. We believe that she was originally quite 
sincere in her desire to avoid the sight and discourage the 
visits of strangers. Whether this was also the desire of 
the mother, is not so very certain. We should suppose, on 
the contrary, that the course of her daughter was one that 
afforded little real satisfaction to her. If the daughter re- 
mained inflexible, the good mother soon convinced Beau- 
champe that she was not; and, saving the one topic — the 
daughter herself — there was none upon which good Mrs. 
Cooke did not expatiate to her visiter with the assured 
freedoms of a friend of a thousand years. Any approach 
to this subject, however, effectually sile. iced her : not, it 
would seem, because she herself felt any repugnance to the 
subject — for Beauchampe could not fail to perceive that 
her eyes brightened whenever the daughter was referred 
to — but her voice was hurried when she replied on such 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 


95 


occasions, and her glance stealthily turned to the entrance, 
as if she dreaded lest the sound should summon other ears 
to the apartment. 

The euriosity of Beauchampe was further stimulated by a 
general examination of the contents of the library. Tiio 
selection was such as, in regions where books are more in 
requisition, and seem more in place, would testify consid 
crably in behalf of the judgment and good taste of the pos- 
sessor. They were all English books, it is true, but they 
were genuine classics of the best days of British literature, 
including the more recent writers of the day. There were 
additional proofs, in such as he took home with him, of the 
equal taste and industry of their reader. The fine passages 
were scored marginally with pencil-lines, and an occasional 
note in the same manner indicated the acquaintance of the 
commentator with the best standards of criticism. Beau- 
champe made another observatiou, however, which had the 
effect of leaving it still doubtful whether these notes were 
made by the present owner. They were all in a female 
hand. He found that a former name had been carefully 
obliberated in every volume, that of Miss Cooke being writ- 
ten in its stead. Though doubtful, therefore, whether to 
ascribe to her the excellent criticism and fine taste which 
thus displayed itself over the pages which he read, this 
doubt by no means lessened his anxiety to judge for him- 
self of the attainments of their possessor; and fortune — 
we may assume thus much — at length helped him to the 
interview which he sought. 

The mother, one day, with nice judgment, fell oppor- 
tunely sick. It is easier to suspect that she willed this 
event than to suppose the daughter guilty of duplicity. It 
necessarily favored the design of Beauchampe. He made 
his morning visit, which had now become periodical, was 
ushered into tlie parlor, where, after a few moments, he was 
informed that Mrs. Cooke was not visible. She pleaded 
indisposition. Miss Cooke, however, had instructed the 


96 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


servant to say to Mr. Beauchampe that he was at liberty 
to use the library as before. 

By this time the eager nature of Beauchampe was excited 
to the highest pitch of anxiety. So many delays — such 
baffling — had deprived his judgment of that deliberate ac- 
tion, without the restraint of which the boundaries of con- 
vention are very soon overpassed. A direct message from 
the mysterious lady, was a step gained. It had the effect 
of still further unseating his judgment, and, without scruple, 
he boldly despatched a message by the servant, soliciting 
permission to see Miss Cooke. An answer was immediately 
returned in which she declined seeing him. He renewed 
the request with the additional suggestion that he had a 
communication to make. This necessarily produced the 
desired effect. In a few minutes she descended to the 
parlor. 

If Beauchampe had been fascinated before, he was cer- 
tainly not yet prepared for the commanding character of 
that beauty which now stood before him. He rose, trem- 
bling and abashed, his cheeks suffused with blushes, but his 
eyes, though dazzled, were full of the eager admiration 
which he felt. She was simply clad, in white. Her per- 
son, tall and symmetrical, was erect and dignified. Her 
face was that of matured loveliness, shaded, not impaired, 
by sadness, and made even more elevated and commanding 
by an expression of intense pain which seemed to mingle 
with ^he fire of her eyes, giving a sort of subdued fierce- 
ness to her glance, which daunted quite as much as it daz- 
zled him. Perhaps a something of severity in her look 
added to his confusion. He stammered confusedly ; the 
courage which had prompted him to seek the interview, 
failed utterly to provide him with the intellectual readinesfi 
by which it was to be carried on. But the feminine instinct 
came to his relief. The lady seated herself, motioning 
her visiter to do the same. 

“ Sit down, sir, if you please. My mother presumes 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY 


97 


that you are anxious to know how sae is. She instructs 
me to thank you for your courtesy, and to say that her in- 
disposition is not serious. She trusts in another day to be 
quite restored.” 

By this time Beauchampe had recovered something of 
his confidence. 

“ It gives me pleasure, Miss Cooke, to hear this. I did 
fear that your mother was seriously suffering. But I can 
not do you and myself the injustice to admit that I came 
simply to see her. No ! Miss Cooke, an anxiety to see you 
in person, and to acknowledge the kindness which has 
given me the freedom of your library, were among the ob- 
jects of my visit.” 

The lady became instantly grave. 

“ 1 thank you, sir, for your compliment, but I have long 
since abandoned society. My habits are reserved. I pre- 
fer solitude. My tastes and feelings equally require it. I 
am governed so far by these tastes and feelings, which have 
now become habits, that it will not suit me to recognise any 
new acquaintance. My books are freely at your service, 
whenever you wish them. Permit me, sir, to wish you good 
morning.” 

She rose to depart. Beauchampe eagerly started to his 
feet. 

“ Stay, Miss Cooke. Do not leave me thus. Hear me 
but for a moment.” 

She resumed her seat with a calm, inflexible demeanor, 
as if, assured of her strength at any moment to depart, she 
had no apprehensions on the subject of her detention. The 
blush again suffused the cheeks of Beauchampe, and the 
rigid silence which his companion observed, as if awaiting 
his utterance, suddenly increased his difficulties in this re- 
spect. But the ice once broken, his impetuous temper was 
resolved that it should not freeze again. 

“ I know, Miss Cooke,” he observed, “ after what you 
have just said, that I have no right any longer to trespass 

5 


98 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


upon you, but I dare not do otherwise — I dare not depart 
— 1 am the slave of a passion which has brought me, and 
which keeps me here.” 

“ I must not listen to you, Mr. Beauchampe,” she replied, 
rising, as if to leave the room. 

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, gently detaining her — 
“ forgive me, but you must.” 

‘ Must 1” her eyes flashed sudden fires. 

“ I implore the privilege to use the word, but in no offen- 
sive sense. Nay, Miss Cooke — I release you — I will not 
seek to detain you. You are at liberty — with my lips only 
do I implore you to remain.” 

The proud woman examined the face of the passionate 
youth with some slight curiosity. To this, however, he was 
insensible. 

“ You are aware, Mr. Beauchampe,” she remarked, in- 
differently, “ that your conduct is somewhat unusual.” 

“ Yes, perhaps so. I believe it. Nay, were I to think, 
Miss Cooke, I should perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, 
agree to pronounce it unjustifiable. But, believe me, it is 
meant to be respectful.” 

She interrupted him : — 

“ Unless I thought so, sir, I could not be detained here 
a moment longer.” 

“ Surely, surely. Miss Cooke, you can not doubt my re- 
spect — my- ” 

“ I do not, sir.” 

“ Ah ! but you are so cold — so repulsive, Miss Cooke.” 

“ Perhaps I had better leave you, Mr. Beauchampe. It 
will be better for both of us. You know nothing of me ; I 
nothing of you.” 

“You mistake. Miss Cooke, in assuming that I know 
nothing of you.” 

“ Ha ! sir !” she answered, rising to her feet, her face 
giowiTiglike scarlet, while a blue vein, like a chord, divided 





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PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY 


99 


the high white forehead in the midst. “ What mean you, 
what know you !” 

“ Much ! I know already that you are alone among 
women — alone in beauty — in intellect !” 

He paused. He marked a sudden and speaking change 
upon her features which struck him as more singular than 
the last. Tlie flush had departed from her cheeks, the blue 
vein had suddenly sunk from sight — a complete pallor over- 
spread her face, and with a slight tremor over her frame, 
she sank upon the seat from which she had arisen. He 
sprang forward, and was at once beside her upon his knees. 
He caught her hand in his own. 

“You arc sick — you are ill!” he exclaimed. 

“ No ! I am better now 1” she answered in low tones. 

“ Thank God I” he exclaimed. “ I feared you had spasms 
— I dreaded I had offended you. You are still so pale. Miss 
Cooke — so very pale!” — and he again started to his feet 
as if to call for assistance. She arrested him. 

“ Do not alarm yourself,” she said with more firmness. 
“ I am subject to such attacks, and they form a sufficient 
reason, Mr. Beauchampc, why I should not distress stran- 
gers with them. Suflbr me now to retire.” 

“ Bear with me yet awliile !” he exclaimed, “ I will try 
not to alarm or to annoy you. You ask me what I know 
of you ! nothing, perhaps, were I to answer according to 
the fashion of the world ; everything, if I answer according 
to the dictates of my heart.” 

“ It is unprofitable knowledge, Mr. Beauchampe.” 

“ Do not say so, 1 implore you. I know that I am a 
rash and foolish young man, but I mean not to offend — 
nay, my purpose is to declare the admiration which I feel.” 

“ I must not hear you, Mr. Beauchampe. I must leave 
you. As I said before, you are welcome to the use of my 
books.” 

“ Ah ! Miss Cooke, it is you, and not your books which 
have bronglit me to your dwelling. Suffer me to see you 


100 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


when I come. Suffer me to know you — to make myself 
known — to bring my sisters ; to conduct you to them. They 
will all be so glad to see and know you.” 

She shook her head mournfully, while a sad smile rested 
upon her lips as she replied : — 

“ Mr. Beauchampe,” she said, “ I will not affect to mis- 
understand you ; but I must repeat, as I have said to you 
before, I have done with society. I am in fact done with 
the world.” 

“ Done with the world ! Oh ! what a thought ! You, 
Miss Cooke, you so able to do all with it !” 

“You can not flatter me, Mr. Beauchampe. The world 
can be nothing to me. I am nothing to it. To wear out 
life in loneliness, forgot, forgetting, is the utmost of my 
hopes from the world. Spare me more. It is not well, it 
will not be desirable, that any intimacy should exist be- 
tween me and your sisters.” 

“ Oh ! why not ? they are so gentle, so pure !” 

“ Ah ! no more, sir, I implore you ;” her brow had sud- 
denly become clouded, and she rose. “ Leave me now, sir 
— I must leave you. I must hear you no longer.” 

Her voice was firm. Her features had suddenly put on 
their former inflexibility of expression. Tlie passionate 
youth at once discovered that the moment for moving her 
determination was past, and every effort now to detain her 
would prejudice his cause. 

“You will leave me. Miss Cooke — you will drive me 
from you — yet let me hope^ ” 

“ Hope nothing from me, Mr. Beauchampe. I would not 
have you hope fruitlessly.” 

“ The wish itself assures me that I can not.” 

“ You mistake, sir — you deceive yourself!” she replied 
with sterner accents. 

“ At least let me not be denied your presence. Let me 
see you. I am not in the world, nor of it, Miss Cooke. Let 
mo sometimes meet you here, and if I am forbid to speak of 


PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 


101 


other things, let me at least speak and hear yon speak of 
these old masters at whose feet I perceive you have been 
no idle student.’^ 

“ Mr. Beauchampe, I can promise nothing. To consent 
to receive and meet you would be to violate many an inter- 
nal resolve.’^ 

‘‘ But why this dreary resolution 

“ Why ! — but ask not, sir. No more from me now. You 
knew not, sir — and you meant not — but you have wakened 
in my mind this morning many a painful and dreary thought, 
which you can not dissipate. I say this to excuse myself 
lor what might seem rudeness. I do not wish to excite 
your curiosity. I tell you, sir, but the truth, when I tell 
you that I am cut off from the world — it matters not how, 
nor why. It is so — and the less I see of it the better. 
W nen you know this, you will understand why it is that I 
should prefer not to see you.’^ 

‘‘ Ah ! but not why I should not seek to see you. No 
Miss Cooke, your dreary destiny does not lessen my willing 
ness to soothe — to share it.’’ 

“ That can never be.” 

“Do not say so. If you knew my heart ” 

“ Keep its secrets, Mr. Beauchampe. Enough, sir, that 
I know my own. That^ sir, has but one prayer, and that 
is for peace — but one passion, and that, sir ” 

“ Is — speak, say. Miss Cooke, tell me what this passion 
is ? Relieve me ; but tell me not that you love another. 
Not that — anything but that.” 

“ Love !” she exclaimed scornfully ; “ lov'* ! no, sir, I do 
not love. Happily, I am free from any such weakness- — 
that weakness of my sex !” 

“ Call it not a weakness, dear Miss Cooke — but a strength 
— a strength of the heart, not peculiar to your sex, but 
the source of what is lofty and ennobling in the heart of 
man,” 

^ Ay, he has a precious stock of it, no doubt ; but no more 


102 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


of this, Mr. Beauchampo. I have my passion, perhaps, hut 
surely love makes no part of it.’’ 

‘‘ What then ?” 

“ Hate !” she cried with startling energy. 

“ Hate ! ha ! can it be that you liate. Miss Cooke V* 

“ Ay, sir, it is possible. Hate is my passion, not the 
only one, since it produces another bearing its own likeness.” 

“ And that ? ” 

“ Is revenge! — Ask yourself, with these passions reisrn- 
ing in my heart, whether there is room for anything more — 
for any other! There is not, and you may not deceive 
yourself with the vain hope to plant any feebler passion in 
a spot which bears such poisonous weeds.” 

Thus speaking she left the room, and, astounded by her 
vehemence, and by the strange though imperfect revelation 
which she had made, Beauchampe found himself alone ! 


developments op passion. 


108 


CHAPTER VIII. 

DEVELOPMENTS OP PASSION. 

XX A j tlic words of the lady fallen from the lips of an ora- 
cle, they could not have more completely fastened them- 
seives on the ears of our hero. Her sublime beauty as she 
spoke those wild accents was that of one inspired. Her 
eye hashed with fires of a supernatural brightness. Her 
brow was lifted, and her hand smote upon her heart, when 
she declared what fierce passions were its possessors, as if 
they themselves were impelling the blow, and the heart was 
iiiat of some mortal enemy. 

Reauchampe was as completely paralyzed as if he had 
sufiered an electric stroke. He would have arrested her 
departure, but his words and action were equally slow. He 
liad lost the power of hands and voice ; and, when he was 
able to speak, she had gone. 

Confused, bewildered, and mortified, he left the house ; 
and sad and silent he pursued his way along the homeward 
paths. Before he had gone far he was saluted with the 
laughter of merry voices, and his sisters were at his side. 
What a contrast was that which instantly challenged the 
attention of his mind, between the girlish, almost childish 
and characterless damsels beside him, and the intense, soul- 
speaking woman he had left ! How impertinent seemed the 
levity of Jane ! how insipid the softness and milky sadness 
of the gentle-hearted Mary ! The reflections of the brother 


104 


BEAUCHAMP^ 


were in no wise favorable to the sisters, but he gave no 
utterance to the involuntary thoughts. 

“ Why, the queen of Sheba has struck you dumb. Brother 
Orville I” said the playful Jane. “ You have seen her to- 
day, I’m certain. That’s the way she always comes over 
one. She has had on her cloudy-cap to-day for your espe- 
cial benefit.” 

“ But have you seen her, brother ?” asked the more timid 
Mary. 

“ To be sure he has — don’t you see ? nothing less could 
make Orville look on us as old Burke, the schoolmaster, 
used to look on him when he put the nouns and verbs out 
of countenance. He has seen her to be sure, and she ?.ame 
out clothed in thunder, I reckon.” 

“ Jane, you vex Orville. But — you did see her, brothe?* ?” 

“ Yes, Mary, Jane is right.” 

“ Didn’t I tell you ? I could see it the moment I set 
eyes on him.” 

“ And don't you think her very beautiful, brother ?” 

“ Very beautiful, Mary.” 

“ Yes, a sort of thunderstorm beauty, I grant you,” said 
Jane ; “ dark and dismal, with such keen flashes of light- 
ning as to dazzle one’s eyes and terrify one’s heart !” 

“ Not a bad description, Jane,” said the brother. 

“ To be sure not. Don’t I know her ? Why, Lord love 
you, the first time we were together I felt all crumpled up, 
body and soul. My soul, indeed, was like a little mouse, 
looking everywhere for a hole to creep into and be out of 
the way of danger ; and I fancied she was a great tigress 
of a mouser, with her eyes following the mouse every which 
way, amusing herself with my terrors, and ready to spring 
upon me and end them the moment she got tired of the 
sport. I assure you I didn’t feel secure a single moment 
while I was with her. I expected to be gobbled up at a 
moment’s warning.” ' 

“ How you run on, Jane, and so unreasonably !” said the 


DEVELOPMENTS OP PASSION. 


105 


gentle Mary. ‘‘ Now, brother, I think all this description 
very unlike Anna Cooke. That she’s sad, usually, and 
gloomy sometimes. I’m willing to admit ; but she was very 
kind and gentle in what she had to say to me, and I believe 
would have been much more so, if Jane hadn’t continually 
come about us making a great laughter. That she is very 
smart I’m certain, and that she is very beautiful everybody 
with half an eye must see.” 

“ I don't, and I’ve both eyes, and pretty keen ones too.” 

‘‘Well, girls,” said Beauchampe, “I intend that you 
shall have a good opportunity to form a correct opinion of 
Miss Cooke — her talents and her beauty. I intend to 
carry you both to visit her to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, don’t, don’t, brother, I beg you ! she’ll eat me up, 
the great mouser ! I sha’n’t be a moderate mouthful for 
her anger.” 

And the mischievous Jane darted from his side, and lifted 
up her hand with a manner of affected deprecation. 

Mary rebuked her as was usual on such occasions, and 
her rebuke was somewhat seconded by one which was 
more effectual. The brother betrayed some little displeas- 
ure as well in words as in looks, and poor Jane contrived 
to make the amende by repressing some portion of that 
lively temerity of temper which is not always innocuous in 
its pleasantries. 

In this way they proceeded to the cottage, where, in pri- 
vate, the young man contrived to let his mother know how 
much he was charmed with the mysterious lady, but not 
how much of his admiration he had revealed. On this 
head, indeed, he was as little capable as anybody else of 
telling the whole truth. He knew not, in fact, what he 
had said in the interview with Miss Cooke. He had felt 
the impulse to say many things, and in his conscience felt 
that he might have said them ; but of the precise nature of 
his confessions he knew nothing. Something, indeed, he 
might infer from what he recollected of the language of 
5 * 


106 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Anna Cooke to himself. He could easily comprehend that 
the freedom with which she declared her feelings must 
have been induced in great degree by the revelation of his 
own ; but, as he had no right — and, by-the-way, as little 
wish — to betray her secrets, so he naturally spared himself 
the mortification of telling his own. 

Thus matters stood with him. His mother listened 
gravely. She could see, in the faltering tongue and flushed 
face of her son, much more of the actual state of his feel- 
ings than his words declared. She was not satisfied that 
he should fall in love with Miss Cooke : not that slie had 
anything against that young lady— r she had none of the 
idle prejudices of her eldest daughter — but that the beau- 
tiful stranger — and she acknowledged her to be beautiful 
— did not impress her favorably. Mrs. Beauchampe was 
a very pious lady ; and the feeling of society is so nearly 
allied to that of pure religion, that when she found Anna 
Cooke deficient in the one tendency, she naturally suspected 
her equal lack of the other. But, in the next place, if the 
old lady had her objections to the young lady, she, at the 
same time, was too fond of her son to resist his wishes very 
long or very urgently. She contented herself with suggest- 
ing some grounds of objection, which the ardency and elo- 
quence of the latter found but little difficulty in overcom- 
ing. At all events, it was arranged that Beauchampe 
should take his sisters the next day to visit his fair, and, 
so far, tyrannical enslaver. 

From this visit, Beauchampe, though without knowing 
exactly why, had considerable expectations. At least, he 
did not despair of seeing the young lady. The mother po- 
litely kept sick — much, it may be added, to the annoyance 
of her daughter. The day came, and breakfast was scarcely 
over before the impetuous youth began to exhibit his anxi- 
ety. But the sisters had to make their toilet, and some- 
thing, he fancied, was due to his own. A country-girl has 
her own ideas of finery, and, the difference of taste aside, 


DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 


107 


the only other differences between herself and the city- 
maiden are differences in degree. The toilet is the altar 
where Vanity not only makes her preparations, but says 
her prayers. We care not to ask whether Love be the 
image that stands above it or not. Perhaps there are few 
calculations of the young female heart in which Love does 
not enter as an inevitable constituent. Certainly, few of 
her thoughts are altogether satisfactory, if they bear not 
his figures in the woof. 

Beaucharape's sisters fairly put his patience to the test ; 
and, strange to say, his favorite sister Mary was much the 
most laggard in her proceedings. She certainly had never 
before made such an unnecessary fuss about her pretty 
little person. At length, however, all were made ready. 
The party sallied forth, reached the house of Mrs. Cooke, 
were admitted, and, after a brief delay, the daughter en- 
tered the room, to a very quick march beaten by the heart 
of our ardent hero. 

But, though this accompaniment was so very quick, the 
entrance of Anna Cooke was calm, slow, and dignified, as 
usual. She received the party very kindly ; and her efforts 
to please them while they stayed seemed as natural and un- 
constrained as if the business of pleasing had been a habit 
of her life. Jane’s apprehensions of being eaten up soon 
subsided, and the gentle Mary had the satisfaction of bring- 
ing about, by some inadvertent remark of her own, an ani- 
niatiiig conversation between her brother and the lovely 
hostess. We say animated conversation, but it must not 
be supposed that it was a lively one. The animation of 
the parties arose from their mutual earnestness of charac- 
ter. The sanguine temperament thus readily throws itself 
into the breach, and identifies itself with the most passing 
occasions. It was in this way that Beauchampe found him- 
self engaged in a brief and pleasant discussion of one of 
those topics, arising from books, in which the parties may 
engage with warmth, yet without endangering the harmony 


108 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


of the conference; even as a wild strain of music — from 
the rolling, rising organ, or the barbaric drum and Sara- 
cenic trumpet — will make the heart thrill and throb again, 
with a sentiment of awe which yet it would be very loath 
not to have awakened. 

Beauchampe was perfectly ravished, the more particularly 
as he did not fail to see that Miss Cooke was evidently not 
insensible to the spirit and intelligence which he displayed 
ill his share of the dialogue. The presence of the sisters, 
fortunately, had the effect of controlling the brother in the 
utterance of those passionate and personal feelings which 
had been forced, as it were, from his lips the day previous. 
Love was unspoken by either, and yet, most certainly, love 
was the only thought of one, and possibly, of both. But 
love is the most adroit of logicians. He argues his case 
upon the data and criteria of a thousand far less offensive 
topics. Religion, law, politics ; art, science, philosophy ; 
all subjects he will discuss as if he had no other purpose 
than to adjust their moot points and settle their vexing 
contrarieties. The only misfortune is that when he is done 
— nay, while he is going on, one is apt to forget the sub- 
ject in the orator. Special pleader that he is, in what a 
specialty all his labors terminate ! 

When Anna Cooke and Orville Beauchampe separated 
that day, what of the argument did they remember ? Each 
readily remembered that the speaker was most eloquent. 
Beauchampe could tell you that the fair debater was never 
so beautiful in person, so high and commanding in intellect 
before ; and when Anna Cooke was alone, she found herself 
continually recalling to her mind’s eye, the bright aspect 
and beaming eyes of the enthusiastic young lawyer — so 
earnest, so seemingly unconscious of himself, as he poured 
forth the overflowing treasures of a warm heart, and a 
really well-stored and naturally-vigorous intellect. She 
saw too, already, how deeply she had impressed herself 
upon his fancy. Beauchampe’s heart had no disguises 


DEVELOPMENTS OP PASSION. 


109 


Strange feelings rose into her own. Strange, terrible 
thoughts filled her mind ; and the vague musings of her 
wild and scarcely coherent spirit, formed themselves into 
words upon her tongue. 

“Is not this an avenger!’’ she muttered. “ Is not this 
an avenger sent from heaven! I have striven in vain. I 
am fettered. It is denied to me to pursue and sacrifice the 
victim. Oh ! surely woman is the image of all feebleness. 
These garments are its badges ; and sanction obstruction 
and invite injustice. As I am, thus and here, what hope is 
there that vengeance can be mine ? The conquest of this 
enthusiastic youth will afford me the freedom that I crave, 
the agent that I need, the sacrifice for which only I dream 
and pray. With him the victim may be sought and found 
wherever he hides himself, and this crushed heart shall 
once more rise in triumph — this trampled pride be uplifted 
— the pangs of this defrauded and lacerated bosom be 
soothed by the sacrifice of blood ! 

“ And why should it not be so ? Why ? Do I live for 
any other passion ? Do I entertain any other image in my 
soul ? What is love, .to me, and fear, and hope, and joy — 
the world without and the world within — what but a dark 
abode in which there is but one light — one star, red and 
wild — a planet rising fiery at the birth of hate, only to set 
in blood, in the sacrifice of its victim. Here is one comes 
to me bearing the knife. He is mine, so declare his looks 
— he loves me, so equally speak his words and actions. 
Shall 1 not use his love for my hate ? What is his love to 
me? His love — ha! ha! ha! His love, indeed — the 
love of a young ambitious lawyer. Is it not rather the 
perfection of vengeance that I should employ one of the 
tribe for the destruction of another ! 

“ But no — no ! why should I involve this boy in my fate ? 
Why should 1 make him my instrument in this wild pur- 
pose ? He is not of the same brood, though of that brother- 
hood. This youtli is noble. He is too ardent, too impetu- 


no 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


ous, for a deliberate design of evil. His soul is generous. 
He feels — he feels! — he, at least, is no masked, no cold- 
blooded traitor, serpent-like, crawling into the open and 
warm heart to beguile and sting. 

“No — no! I must not wrong him thus. He must bo 
spared this doom. I must brood over it alone, and let the 
fates work it as they may. Though, were he but half less 
ardent — could I suspect him of a baseness — I should whet 
the dagger, and swear him to its use ! Yes — at any altar, 
for that sacrifice — though that altar be the very one on 
which I am the sacrifice — though it bear the name of love, 
and hold above it his cruel and treacherous image!” 

Sucli were the frequent meditations of the passionate 
and proud woman. Her mother prompted these not un- 
frequently without intending it. She, with the sagacity of 
an ancient dealer, soon discovered the sort of coin which 
Beauchampe was disposed to bring with him into Love’s 
crowded market-place. She readily detected, in the unso- 
phisticated manners of Beauchampe, the proper material 
on which it would be easy for her daughter to work. The 
intense, inflammable, impetuous nature was such as a single 
glance of those dark, bright eyes — a single sentence from 
tliat mellow, yet piercing, sweet, yet deep-toned voice — 
might light up with inextinguishable flame — might prompt 
with irresistible impulses. Of course, the old lady had no 
knowledge of the one absorbing passion which had become 
a mania in the breast of her daughter. Her calculations 
went no farther than to secure a son-in-law — but of this 
the daughter had no thought, only as it might be necessary 
to effect other objects. Her purpose was to find an avenger, 
if anything ; and, even for this object, we have seen, from 
her spoken meditations, she was yet too generous to seek 
for such an agent in one so unselfish, so true-hearted as 
Beauchampe had appeared. 

But the rough-hewing of events was not to be left either 
to mother, or daughter, however resolved and earnest might 


DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 


Ill 


be the will which they severally or mutually exercised. 
The strongest of us, in the most earnest periods of our 
lives, move very much as the winds blow. It may hurt our 
vanity, but will do our. real interests no harm to declare, 
that individual man is mostly, after all, only a sort of moral 
vane on the world’s housetop. If you find him stationary 
for any length of time be sure it is less from principle than 
rust. 


112 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE AND LAW. 

“ Denial, which is death, 

Hangs on her lips, and from her heart to mine 
Sends the great agony, like an icy shaft !” 

The progress of Beauchampe, though in one respect noth- 
ing, was yet not inconsiderable as bringing about the devel- 
opment of his own tendencies and affections. In the re- 
sults which his desires might have suggested to his mind, 
there had been no sort of progress. He was pretty much 
where he was at the beginning. His pursuit, begun in his 
instincts, and seemingly from mere curiosity, had, however, 
brought him to a better consciousness of the meaning of 
that sudden fancy which had prompted him to dream of a 
heart-ideal at the moment when love seemed to be the re- 
motest thing from his thoughts. He now began to feel that 
a fate had been busy to bring about the acquaintance be- 
tween himself and the mysterious stranger. He had iden- 
tified the vague image of his fancy with the fascinating 
woman whose charms, for the first time, seemed to put his 
passions into activity. Yet his thoughts gave him but little 
encouragement. He had no such vanity as could persuade 
him that his interviews with the object of his fancy had 
been productive of any good to his cause ; and his moments 
of calmer reflection only taught him additional humility, as 
he felt how very wide was the gulf that lay between his 
hopes, his claims, and pretensions, and the very remarka- 


LOVE AND LAW. 


113 


able woman whom he had begun to worship. He did not 
deceive himself for a moment with the idea that he had 
made, or could make, any impression upon her. He felt 
that he had not done so ; and while he was as eager in his 
desires as ever, he was full of despondency as he examined, 
with all the calmness possible to his nature, the very slen- 
der foundation for his hopes. The startling character of 
the scene which we have just described — her terrible dec- 
laration, so evidently earnest — the mysterious secret of her 
life, the existence of which it declared, but did not eluci- 
date — all seemed to determine against the possibility of 
any progress with a nature at once so wild, so powerful, 
and so utterly unlike the ordinary characteristics of the sex 
as usually found in society. 

But perseverance, where passion is the impelling power, 
will sooner or later work its way to the object which it 
socks. It will bring about the issue, certainly, though it 
may be disappointed in its results. If hate be intense on 
the one hand, love, in the case of a determined will, is no 
feeble opponent ; at all events, the one may be as tenacious 
of its object as the other : and the fiery passions of Beau- 
chanipe, if less matured and less concentrative than the hate 
which raged in the bosom of Anna Cooke, were yet in 
liourly training under the guidance of a fate, which, as she 
was now beginning to think, contemplated the union of both 
forces, for the gratification of at least one of the seemingly 
hostile passions ! 

We pass over numerous small details in the progress of 
the parties, which were yet, in some degree, important in 
bringing about the general result. They served gradually 
to break down the barriers, of a social kind, which had hith- 
erto stood up as a wall between the two families. The 
impetuous nature of Beauchampe had succeeded in tearing 
away those which had been set up by his own. He was 
too much the object of warm affection with mother and sis- 
ters to sufiFer them very long to maintain their hostilities to 


114 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


his obvious desires ; and, without exactly apprehending that 
her son designed anything further than the communion with 
a young woman whose intellect had won the admiration of 
his own — without thinking it certain, or even probable, 
that this communion would ripen into love — for Mrs. Beau- 
champe felt that there was something repulsive to herself 
in the character of Anna Cooke, and naturally concluded 
that the same qualities would exercise antagonistic effects 
to passion on the part other son — she at length gave fully 
in to his wishes that there should be a closer intimacy be- 
tween her girls and the beautiful and mysterious stranger. 

This concession won, the ardent nature of Beauchampe 
pushed his advantages /with due celerity and earnestness, 
lie suffered no day to escape without some approach to the 
mutual intercourse of the parties ; and, with even pace, Mrs. 
Cooke, and even her daughter, became reconciled to the 
frequent presence of the Beaucharnpes within their house- 
hold, while the visits of the strangers, though less frequent, 
were now stripped of nearly all constraint. Our young 
lawyer felt that he had compassed a considerable degree 
of ground w^hen he found himself admitted to continual in- 
tercourse with the Cookes, as a friend of the family. Mrs. 
Cooke had some unproductive property, of which she de- 
sired to dispose. She had certain ancient claims, which 
were thought not beyond recovery. There were papers, 
and titles, and letters, which were ‘to be examined profes- 
sionally ; and young Beauchampe was duly installed as the 
lawyer of the widow and her daughter. 

Lawyer and lover ! The combination promises rare re- 
sults in logic. We shall see what they are to produce. 
Usually, the one sinks himself in the other character. Let 
the client understand that this is not certainly the fact, and 
he considers his case in bad condition. The lover will be 
apt to kill the lawyer, in his opinion. He will get out of 
such doubtful custody before next term, if this bo possible 
.A.t all events, he will desire assistant counsel. 


LOVE AND LAW. 


lU 


We doubt if Beauchampe ^ver fully surrendered his mind 
to the law-matters of Mrs. Cooke. We somewhat fear that 
he considered all the business a bore. At all events, he 
liurried over its details, whenever they conferred on the sub- 
ject, with what Mrs. Cooke soon began to think a singular 
want of regard for her interests. 

But neither did he seem to make much progress with his • 
own. Though he turned away from the mother to the 
daughter, leaving the law to shift for itself, yet love with 
the latter was an interdicted subject. 

But when, and for how long, will love stay interdicted ? 

Can you answer, gentle reader ? What is your experi- 
ence of the matter ? As easily curb the tides, chain the 
winds, arrest the flight of birds in their season — do any 
other impossible thing — with the subtlest agencies of life 
and nature working with an indomitable will, and under the 
impulse of a law the secret of which no man can claim to 
fathom. 

Beauchampe was under interdict of law. 

Love was under interdict on Beauchampe's lips. 

But love could not be put under interdict in Beauchampe’s 
lieart — 

And the wild blood of Beauchampe was of such fiery im- 
pulse, that it never yet had bowed submissively to law. 

What curbed him for a while, and made him submissive, 
in appearance, to the interdict, was awe, veneration, the 
humility of his hope, the fear lest he should prejudice and 
lose his case by precipitation. In brief, for the first time 
in his life, he called in Prudence to his aid. 

Now, when Love makes an ally of Prudence, it becomes 
a very formidable power. It was the only ally who could 
possibly have served Beauchampe in his approaches to Anna 
Cooke. It disai'med her vigilance in the first place ; it in- 
creased his own ; and sap may enable one to overcome the 
fortress which resists the most terrible assault. 

Time wrought favorably for Beauchampe. ft enabled 


116 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


him to show his resources of mind and character — above 
all, the ingenuous and impulsive, the frank and faithful, the 
solicitous and confiding, the dutiful and considerate — 
which, in spite of his fiery passions, were the predominant 
virtues of his mind and heart. 

Anna Cooke gradually took pleasure in seeing him. She 
found him both abler in intellect and gentler of disposition 
than she had fancied him at first. His amenities, prompted 
as much by his fears of the loss of her favor, had greatly 
controlled the natural audacity of his blood, and the pru- 
dence of his approach gradually served to quiet her suspi- 
cions. She somewhat relaxed in that vigilant watch of eye 
and ear which she had maintained over his first approaches. 
She no longer looked for tlie equivocal in his speech ; no 
longer encountered the doubtful with asperity. The way 
was gradually smoothing for the approach of other powers. 
The small pioneer virtues, which Passion so cunningly em- 
ploys under the guidance of that great engineer Prudence, 
were doing wonders in the cause of a despot, who, as yet, 
judiciously kept his standard out of sight. 

Anna Cooke was really getting to be quite pleased when 
Beauchampe looked in of a morning, or strolled in to tea, 
unaccompanied by his sisters, of an evening. 

It is one of the natural arts of Love to excite the sensi- 
bilities into the most commanding activity, even while it 
refines and purifies the tastes ; to subdue all tlie sharpnes- 
ses of character, even as it subdues the asperities of tone 
and accent in the voice ; to throw into the eyes a mild, per- 
suasive expression of entreaty and solicitude ; a hesitating 
tenderness into the utterance ; and, above all, so certainly, 
and even suddenly, to elevate the mind, that even the vul- 
gar nature and the inferior understanding become modified 
and enlarged under its influence — and Ignorance itself 
seems, as if under inspiration, to receive such an increase 
of intelligence, that its speech shall rarely declare its defi- 
ciencies. 


LOVE AND LAW. 


117 


Now, though by no means a wise, learned, or greatly- 
gifted youth, Beauchampe was neither vulgar nor ignorant. 
Still, at the beginning of his intercourse with Anna Cooke, 
he was full of those salient points of character and manner 
which exhibit the lack of that refining attrition of society 
which no course of education can well supply. And some 
of these saliences grated upon Anna Cooke on his first 
interview with her. 

But, in a single week, all this was altered. Love carries 
with it those instincts of good taste, those solicitous scnsi 
bilities, that refinement becomes inevitable under its pres- 
ence ; and without his own consciousness, perhaps, though 
it did not escape hers, the bearing, the whole carriage and 
deportment, tone and manner, of Beauchampe, underwent 
rapid transition. From the rough, sturdy, confident rustic 
— almost insolent in his independence, and very determined 
upon his objects — indifferent to, if not wholly ignorant of, 
the higher polish of the social world — he grew, in a single 
week, into the subdued and quiet gentleman, heedful always 
of the sensibilities of those whom he addressed, and ten- 
derly considerate of the claims and rights of others. At a 
single bound he became a gentleman ! 

And that word “ gentleman” — how few have ever weighed 
and properly taught its due significance ! To acquire this 
character is one of the first processes by which we make a 
Christian. Certainly, no man can be a Christian who is 
not first a gentleman. And this involves no idle lesson for 
the clergy. Among writers, old Middleton, the dramatist, 
seems to have been almost the only one who seems fully to 
have caught a just conception of the character so as to 
define it. Incidentally, he gives a happy array of the vir- 
tues — not merely qualifications, graces, and manners — 
essential to the gentleman. His allusion to the Man Christ 
will only be misconstrued by blockheads : — 

“ Patience, my lord ! why, ’tis the soul of peace ; 

Of all the virtues, ’tis nearest kin to Heaven • 


118 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


It makes men like the gods. The best of men, 

That e’er wore earth about him, was a sufferer ; 

A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, 

The first trm gentleman that ever breathed /” 

Beaucbampe, under the tuition of Love, was making great 
progress toward becoming a gentleman. Love first made 
him gentle ; Prudence then brought in the other allies, Pa- 
tience, Forbearance, Conciliation, Solicitude — humble vir- 
tues, serving-brothers of the household, whose permitted 
tendance will make of the humblest dwelling — 

“ A happy home, like heaven 

Beauchampe’s improvement, under the new course of tui- 
tion — under this new, potent, and almost unsuspected 
teacher — was wonderfully rapid. A few weeks had made 
the most surprising changes in bearing, sentiment, charac- 
ter, nay, in the very expression of his face. His features 
— and the fact belongs to the studies of the psychologist in 
especial, as significant of what the refining arts did for the 
Greek soul and character — his very features, though not 
wanting in a certain nobleness before, had become softened, 
sweetened, spiritualized as it were, in the wonderful prog- 
ress which the gentler virtues had been making in his heart. 

The result did not escape the attention of Anna Cooke. 
She was not insensible to the singular and interesting 
change in his features since the time when she first saw 
him. It surprised even her, who was ordinarily so indif- 
ferent to external aspects. It gradually affected her own 
feelings, as it conveyed an exquisite compliment to her own 
influence. She saw the beginning of this improvement of 
the young man, in the birtii of his devotion to herself. She 
began to feel a certain sympathy with the progress of a sen- 
timent which was so powerful and at the same time so un- 
obtrusive, so little claiming or aspiring. Not that she 
dreamed to encourage it. How could she ? That was im- 
possible ! So she said to herself, whenever she thought 
upon the subject. We have seen her expressed reflections. 


LOVE AND LAW. 


ll.j 


She renewed them. Her mind was as uniLoved as cvci*. 
The changes, whatever they might be, were confined wholly 
to her tastes and sensibilities. But these, after all, are the 
true provinces in which true love is decreed to work ! 

Her mental opinions and resolves had undergone no 
change. Nay, they grew stronger, by a natural tendency, 
as her interest in the young man increased. She resolved 
that he should not be sacrificed ; and this resolve was the 
necessary parent of another. She could never give encour- 
agement to the object of her present lover. She could 
never be his wife. No ! she already felt too much inter- 
ested in the youth, to use her own energetic language, ut- 
tered in midnight soliloquy, ‘‘ to dishonor him with her 
hand !” She was not conscious of the sigh which fell from 
her lips when this determination was spoken. She was not 
conscious, and consequently not apprehensive, of the prog- 
ress which a new passion was making in her heart. That 
sigh had its signification, but this, though it fell from her 
own lips, was inaudible to her own ears. 

Laboring under this unconsciousness with regard to her 
own feelings, it was perhaps not so great a stretch of mag- 
nanimity, on her part, to resolve that Beauchampe should 
not be permitted to serve her brooding hatred, or to share 
in her secret sorrows. Such was her determination. 

One day, he grew more warm in his approaches. Cir- 
cumstances favored his object, and the topics which they 
had discussed, on previous occasions, insensibly encouraged 
this. Suppressing his eagerness of manner, putting as much 
curb as he could on the impatient utterance which was only 
too habitual to him wliere his feelings were excited, he 
strove, in the most deliberate form of address, to declare 
his passion, and to solicit her hand. 

Mr. Beauchampe,” she said firmly, “ I thank you. 1 
am grateful for this proof of your regard and attachment ; 
and, in regretting it, I implore you not to suspect me of 
caprice, or a wanton desire to exercise the power which 


120 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


your unhappy preference confers on me. Nor am I insen 
sible to your claims. Were it possible, sir, that I could 
ever marry, I know no one to whom I would sooner intrust 
my affections than to you. But there is an insuperable bar- 
rier between us — not to be broken — not to be overpassed; 
Never ! never ! never !” 

“ Do not speak thus, dearest Miss Cooke. Spare me 
this utterance. What is the barrier, this insuperable bar- 
rier, not to be broken, not to be overpassed ? Trust me, it 
can be broken, it can be passed. What are the obstructions 
that true love can not remove ?” 

“ Not these, not these ! It is impossible, sir. I do not 
deceive myself — I would not deceive you — but I assure 
you, Mr. Beauchampe, that the truth I declare is no less 
solemn than certain. I can never listen to your prayer — 
I can never become your wife — no, nor the wife of any 
man ! The barrier which thus isolates me from mankind 
is, I solemnly tell you, impassable, and can not be broken.” 

‘‘Suffer me to strive — it is not in me that your objec- 
tions arise 

“No! but—” 

“ Then suffer me to try and overcome this difficulty— 
remove this barrier.” 

“ It will be in vain, sir ; you would strive in vain.” 

“ Not so ! declare it — say in what it consists — and, be- 
lieve me, if such talents as are mine, such toils as man can 
devote, with such a reward awaiting him as that which my 
success would secure for me, can effect an object, I must 
succeed. Speak to me freely. Miss Cooke. Show me this 
obstacle — ” 

“ Never ! never 1 There, at once, the difficulty rises. I 
can not, dare not, reveal it. Ask no more, I entreat you. I 
should have foreseen this, and commanded it otherwise. I 
have suffered your attentions too long, Mr. Beauchampe : 
for your own sake, let me forbid them now. They can 
never come to good. They can have no fruits. Here, 


LOVE AND LAW. 


121 


before Heaven, which I invoke to hear me, I can never 
be--” 

“Stay! — do not speak it!” he exclaimed, passionately 
catching her uplifted liand, and silencing, by his louder ac- 
cent, the word upon her lips. 

“Stay, Miss Cooke! be not too hasty— be not rash in. 
this decision ; I implore you, for your sake and mine. Rear 
me calmly — resume your seat but for a few moments. I 
will strive to be calm ; but only hear me.” 

Re led her to a seat, which she resumed with that air 
of recovered dignity and stern composure which shows a 
mind made up and resolute. Re was terribly agitated, in 
spite of all his efforts at composure. His eyes trembled, 
and his lips quivered, and the movements of his frame were 
almost convulsive. But he also was a man of strong will. 
But for his youth, he had been as inflexible as herself. He 
recovered himself sufficiently to speak to her in tones sur- 
prisingly coherent, and with a degree of thoughtfulness 
which showed how completely a determined will can con- 
trol the utterance even of extraordinary passion. 

“ Hear me, Miss Cooke. I can see that there is a mys- 
tery about you which I do not seek to penetrate. You 
have your secret. Let it be so still. I love you, deeply, 
passionately, as I never fancied it was possible for me or 
any man to love. This passion rends my frame, distracts 
ray mind — makes it doubtful if I could endure life in its 
denial. I have seen you only to worship you. Lost to me, 
I lose faith as well as hope. I no longer know my divini- 
ties ; I no longer care for life, present or future. Do not 
suppose I speak wildly. I believe all that I say. It must 
be as I say it. Now, hear me : to avoid this fate, I am 
willing to risk many evils — dangers that might affright the 
ordinary man under the ordinary feelings of man. You 
spoke the other day of having but a single passion, which 
was not love ! — ” 

“ Hate !” she interrupted liim to say. 

6 


122 


BFvAUCHAMPE. 


‘‘ Hate, it was — and that gave birth to another not iin 
like it.” 

“ Revenge ! yes, revenge !” such was her second inter- 
ruption. He proceeded: — 

“ I understand something of this. You have been 
wronged. You have an enemy. I will seek him. I will 
be your champion — die for you if need be — only tell me 
that you will be mine !” 

“ Will you, indeed, do this ?” 

She rose, approached him, laid her hand on his arm, and 
looked into his eyes with a keen, fixed, fixing, and fascina- 
ting glance, like that of a serpent. Her tones were very 
low, very audible, but how impressive ! They sunk not into 
his ear, but into his heart, and a cold thrill followed them 
there. Before he could reply, however, she receded from 
him, sunk again into her seat, and covered her face in her 
hands. He approached her. She waved him off. 

“ Leave me, Mr. Beauchampe — leave me, now and for 
ever. I can not hear you. I will not. I need not your 
help. You can not revenge me.” 

“ I will ! I can ! Your enemy shall be mine. I will pur- 
sue him to the ends of the earth ! But give me his name.” 

“ No, you shall not !” she said with apparent calmness. 
“ Thus I reject your offer — your double offer. I will not 
wrong your generosity — your love, Beauchampe — by a 
compliance with your prayer. Leave me now ; and, oh, 
come not to me again ! I would rather not see you. I 
feel for you — deeply, sincerely — but, no more. Leave me 
now — leave me for ever.” 

He sunk on his knee beside her. He clasped her hand, 
and carried it passionately to his lips. She rose, and with- 
drew it from his grasp. 

“ Rise, Beauchampe,” she said, in subdued but firm ac- 
cents. “ Let it lessen your disappointment to know that, if 
I could ever be the wife of any man, you should have the 
profci'ence over all. I believe your soul to be noble. I do 


LOVE AND LAW. 


123 


ii(;t believe you would be guilty of a baseness. Believing 
this, I will not abuse your generosity. You are young. 
You speak with the ardor of youth ; and with the same 
ardor you feel, for the moment, the disappointments of 
youth. The same glow of feeling will enable you to over- 
come them. You will forget me very soon. Let me en- 
treat you, for your own sake, to do so. Henceforward, I 
will assist you in the effort. I will not see you again.” 

A burst of passionate deprecation and appeal answered 
this solemn assurance, but did not affect her decision. He 
rose, again endeavored to grasp and detain her hand, but 
she broke away with less dignity of movement than usual ; 
and, had not the eyes of the youth been blinded by his own 
weaknesses, he might have seen the big tear in hers, which 
she fled precipitately only to conceal. 


124 


BFAUOHAMPE. 


CHAPTER X. 

HOPE DENIED. 

From this period Miss Cooke studiously withheld her 
presence from the eyes of her infatuated lover. In vain did 
he return day after day to her dwelling. His only recep- 
tion was accorded by the mother, whose garrulity was con- 
siderably lessened in the feeling of disappointment which 
the course of her daughter necessarily inspired in her mind. 
She had had her own plans, which, as she knew the firm- 
ness of her daughter’s character, she could not but be con- 
vinced were effectually baffled. To her Beauchampe de- 
clared himself, but from her he received no encouragement 
except that which was contained in her own consent, which, 
as he had already discovered, did not by any means imply 
that of the one object whose consent was everything. The 
old woman pleaded in secret the passion of the young man, 
but she pleaded fruitlessly. Her petition became modified 
into one soliciting only her daughter’s consent to receive 
him as before ; and to induce this consent the more readily, 
Beauchampe pledged himself not to renew the subject of 
love. 

But Anna Cooke now knew the value of such pledges. 
She also knew, by this time, the danger to herself of again 
meeting with one whose talents and worth she had already 
learned to admire. The feeling of prudence grew stronger 
as her impressions in liis favor were increased. This con 


HOPE DENIED. 


125 


tradiction of character is not of common occurrence. But 
the position of Anna Cooke was not only painful but a 
peculiar one. To suffei her affections to become involved 
with Beauchampe was only to increase her difficulties and 
mortifications. She felt that it would be dishonorable to 
accept him as a husband without revealing her secret, and 
that revealed, it would be very doubtful whether he would 
he so willing to take her as his wife. This was a dilemma 
which she naturally feared to encounter. 

We do not say, that she did not also share in those feel- 
ings of disappointment and denial under which Beauchampe 
so greatly suffered. The sadness increased upon her coun- 
tenance, and softened its customary severity. She felt the 
darker passions of her mind flickering like some sinking 
candle-flame, and growing daily more feeble under the an 
tagonist feeling of another of very different character. 
The dream of hate and vengeance which for five years had 
been, however baneful to her heart, a source of strength 
to her frame, grew nightly less vivid, and less powerful 
over her imagination ; and, hopeless as she was of love, 
she trembled lest the other passions which, however strange- 
ly, had yielded her solace for so long a time, should abandon 
her also. 

For such a nature as that of Anna Cooke, some strong 
food was necessary. There must be some way to exercise 
and employ those deep desires and earnest spiritings of her 
mind, which else would madden and destroy her. It be- 
came necessary to recall her hates, to renew her vows and 
prayers of vengeance, to concentrate her thoughts anew 
on the bloody sacrifice which she had so long meditated in 
secret. 

But this was no easy task. The image of Beauchampe 
came between her eyes and that of the one victim whose 
destruction alone she souglit. The noble, generous, de- 
voted countenance of the one, half obliterated the wily, 
treacherous visage of the other. The perpetual pleadings 


126 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


of the mother contributed to present this oostacle to her 
mind. 

To escape from this latter annoyance, and, if possible, 
evade the impression, which, in softening her feelings, had 
obliterated some of her hates, she renewed a practice 
which she had for some time neglected. She might be 
seen every morning stealing from the cottage and taking 
her way to the cover of the adjacent forests. Here, hid- 
den from all eyes, she buried herself in the religious soli- 
tude. What feelings filled her heart, what fancies vexed 
her mind, what striving forms of love and hate, conflicted 
in her fancy, we may perhaps conjecture ; but there, alone, 
save with the images of her thought, she wasted the vacant 
hours ; drawing her soul’s strength from that bitter weed 
of hate, the worst moral , poison which the immortal soul 
can ever cherish. 

With Beauchampe the sorrow was not loss, and there 
was less to strengthen ; but that little was not of so dan- 
gerous a quality. He felt the pang of denial, but the bit- 
terness of hate had never yet blighted the young, green 
leaves of his youthful affections. He was unhappy, but 
not desperate. Still he could not but see, in the course 
taken by Anna Cooke, a character of strength and inflex- 
ibility, which rendered all prospects of future success, 
which looked to her, extremely doubtful. There had been 
no relaxing in her rigor. The mother, whose own sym- 
pathy with his cause was sufficiently obvious, had shown 
its hopelessness, even when she most encouraged him to 
persevere. Perseverance had taught him the rest of a hard 
lesson — and the young lover, in his first love, now trembled 
to find himself alone ! 

Alone ! and such a loneliness. The affections of mother 
and sisters no longer offered solace or companionship to his 
heart. They no longer spoke to his affections. Their 
words fell upon his ears only to startle and annoy ; their 
gentle smiles were only so many gleams of cold, mocking 


HOPE DENIED. 


127 


moonlight scattered along the dreary seas of passion in 
his soul. He felt that he could not live after this fashion, 
for he had still a hope — a hope just sufficiently large to 
keep him doubtful. Anna Cooke had declared that her 
scruples were not to him. The bar which severed her from 
him was that which severed her from man. But for that — 
such was her own assurance^ — “ he should be preferred to 
all others whom she knew.” 

That bar ! What was it ? Beauchampe was not suffi- 
ciently experienced in the history of the passions, to con- 
jecture what that obstacle might be. He fancied, at the 
utmost, that her affections might have been slighted ; he 
knew — but chiefly from books which are not always cor- 
rect in such matters — that women did not usually forgive 
such an offence. Betrothed, she might have been deserted 
— perhaps with insult — and this, he readily thought, might 
amply, justify the fierce spirit of vengeance which she 
breathed. Or, it might be that she had been born to for- 
tune, and had been wronged and robbed, by some wily vil- 
lain, of her possessions. Something of this he fancied he 
had gathered from the garrulous details of the mother. 

But, even were these conjectures true, still there was 
nothing in them to establish such a barrier as Anna Cooke 
insisted on,, between his passion and herself. Blinded as 
he was by his preference, and, in his own simple innocence 
of heart, overlooking the only reasonable mode by which 
such a mystery could be solved, the truly wretched youth 
became hourly more so. Failing to find his way to her 
presence, he resorted to that process of pen, ink, and paper, 
which the Heloise of Pope insists was designed by Heaven 
expressly for the use of such wretches as Beauchampe and 
herself, and his soul poured itself forth upon his sheet with 
all the burning effluence of the most untameable affection. 
Page after page grew beneath his hands — every line a keen 
arrow from the bended bow of passion, and shot directly 
at tne heart. To borrow the phraseology of the old Span- 


128 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


ish teachers of the estilo culto^ if his tears wet the paper, 
the heat of his words dried it as soon. Beaucharape spoke 
from his soul and it penetrated to hers. But though she 
felt and suffered, she was unmoved. Her reply was firm 
and characteristic : — 

“ Noble young man, leave me and be happy. Depart 
from this plaoe ; seek me, see me, think of me, no more ! 
Why should you share a destiny like mine ? Obey your 
own. It calls you elsewhere. If it be just to you, yours 
will be lofty and honorable ; if not, at least it will spare 
you any participation in one so dreary as is mine. Go, I 
implore you, and cease to endure the anguish which you still 
inflict. Go, forget me, and be happy. Yet, if not, take 
with you as the saddest consolation I can give, the assu- 
rance that you leave behind you a greater suffering than 
you bear away. If, as you tell me, the arrow rankles in 
your heart, believe me there is an ever-burning fire which 
encircles mine. I have not even the resource of the scor- 
pion, not, at least, until my ‘ desperate fang’ has done its 
work on another brain than my own. Then, indeed, the 
remedy were easy ; at all events where life depends upon 
resolution, one can count its allotted minutes in the articu- 
lations of a drowsy pulse. Once more, noble young man, 
I thank you ; once more I implore you to depart. I will 
not send you my blessings — I will not endanger your 
safety by a prayer of mine. Yet, I could pray for you, 
Beauchampe. I believe you worthy of the blessings, and 
perhaps you would not be injured by the prayer, of one so 
desolate as I am !” 

This letter, so far from baffling his ardor, was calculated 
to increase it. He hurried once more to the dwelling of 
Mrs. Cooke ; but only to meet a repulse. 

“ Tell him, I can not and will not see him !” was the 
inflexible reply ; and the mother was not insensible to the 


HOPE DENIED. 129 

struggle which shook the majestic soul and form of the 
speaker in uttering these few words. 

In a paroxysm of passion, most like frenzy, Beauchampe 
darted from the dwelling. That day he rambled in the 
woods, scarcely conscious of his course, quite unconscious 
of any object. The next, taking his gun with him by way 
of apology, he passed in the same manner. And thus for 
two days more. 

Somewhat more composed by this time, his violent mood 
gave way to one of a more contemplative character ; but 
the shadows of the forest were even more congenial to the 
disconsolate than the desperate. They afforded him the 
only protection and companionship which he sought in either 
of his moods. Here he wandered, giving himself up to the 
dreary conviction which swells every young man’s heart, 
when first loving, he seems to love in vain, and when the 
sun of hope seems set for him for ever ; and henceforth, 
earth was little more than a place of tombs — the solemn 
cypress, and the Druid mistletoe, its most fitting decora- 
tions ; while, under each of its deceptive flowers, care, and 
pain, and agony, lay harbored in the forms of gnat, and 
wasp, and viper, ready to dart forth upon any thoughtless 
hand that stoops to pluck the beauty of which they might 
fitly be held the bane. 

But, it was not Beauchampe’s destiny, as Anna Cooke 
had fancied, to escape from hers. In vain had she striven 
to save him from it. He was one not to be saved. Mark 
the event. To escape him — perhaps dreading that her 
strength might fail, at some moment, to resist his prayer 
to see and speak with her ; and tired of her mother’s con- 
stant pleading in behalf of her suitor — she fled from the 
house, and, as we have seen, stole away, day by day, to 
lonely places, dark, gloomy, and tangled, such as the 
wounded deer might seek out, in his last agonies, in which 
to die in secret. 

We have seen already what has been the habit of Beau- 
6 * 


130 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


champe in this respect. His woodland musings had not 
been without profit. Assured now of the hopelessness of 
his pursuit from the stern and undeviating resolution which 
the lady of his love had shown, at every attempt which he 
made to overcome her determination, he, at length, with a 
heavy heart, concluded to adopt her counsel, and to fly from a 
scene in which disappointment had humbled him, and where 
all of his most acute feelings were kept in a state of most 
painful irritation. But, before this, he again addressed her 
by letter. His words were brief : — 

“ I shall soon leave this place. I shall obey you. Yet, 
let me see you once more. Vouchsafe me one look upon 
which my heart may brood in its banishment. Let me see 
that dear image — let me hear that voice — that voice of 
such sweet sorrow. Do not deny me this prayer. Do not ; 
for in leaving you, dearest, but most relentless woman, I 
would not carry with me at the last moment, to disturb the 
holier impression which you have made upon my soul, a 
feeling of the injustice of yours. With a heart hopeless 
and in the dust, I implore you. Do not reject my prayer. 
Do not deny me — let me once more behold you, and I will 
be then better prepared to rush away to the crowded haunts 
of life, or it may be the more crowded haunts of death. 
Life and death ! ah ! how naturally the words come to- 
gether. You have rendered their signification little in my 
ears. You, you only. Yet I ask you not now to reverse 
the doom. Is not my prayer sufficiently humble ! I ask 
you not to spare, not to save ; only to soothe the pangs of 
that departure which you command, and which seems littlo 
less than death to me. On my knees, I implore you. Let 
me see you but once — once more — let me once more hear 
your voice, though I hear nothing after.” 

To this, the answer was immediate, but the determina- 
tion was unchanged. It said : — 


HOPE DENIED. 


181 


“ I may seem cruel, but I am kind to you. Oh ! believe 
me. It will console me under greater suffering than any 
I can inflict, to think that you do believe me. I am a 
woman of wo — born to it — with no escape from my des- 
tiny. The sense of happiness, nevertheless, is very strong 
within me. Were it not impossible that I could do you 
wrong, I could appreciate the generous love you proffer 
me. I feel that I could do it justice. But terror and death 
attend my steps, and influence the fortunes of all who share 
in mine. I would save you from these, and — worse ! You 
need not to be told that there are worse foes to the proud, 
fond heart, than either death or terror. Fancy what these 
may be, and fly from me as from one whose touch is conta- 
gion — whose breath is bondage — whose conditions of com- 
munion are pangs, and trials, and — shame ! Do not think 
T speak wildly. No, Beauchampe, you little dream with 
what painful inflexibility I bend myself to the task of say 
ing thus much. Spare me and yourself any further utter- 
ance. Go, and be happy. You are yet young, very young. 
Perhaps you know not that I am older than you. Not 
much — yet how much. Oh! I have so crowded moments 
with events — feelings, the events of the heart — that I am 
grown suddenly old. Old in youth. I am like the tree 
you sometimes meet — flourishing, green at the top — while 
in the heart sits death and decay, and, perhaps, gloomier 
tenants beside. These I can not escape — I can not survive. 
But you have only one struggle before you. You have suf- 
fered one disappointment. It will disturb you for a while, 
but not distress you long. You will find love where you 
do not seek it — happiness, which you could never find with 
me. Go, Beauchampe — for your sake, I deny your prayer. 
I will not see you. Do not upbraid me in your soul, nor by 
your lips. Alas ! you know not how hard is the struggle, 
which 1 have, to say so much. You know not from what a 
bondage this struggle saves you. My words shall not call 
you back. No looks of mine shall beguile you. Be you 


132 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


free, Beauchampe — free and happy ! If you could but guess 
the temptation which I overcome — the vital uses which 
your love could be to me, and which I reject, you would 
thank me — oh ! how fervently — and bless me — would 1 
could say, how justly ! Farewell ! Let it be for ever, 
Beauchampe ! Farewell ! farewell for ever !” 


THE TERIHBLE SECRET. 


138 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 

Beauchampe sat, sad and silent, in a corner of one lov 
cnamber in his mother’s cottage. The family were all 
present. There was an expression in every face that sym 
pathized with his own. All were sad and gloomy. A 
painful reserve, so strange hitherto in that little family of 
love, oppressed the spirits of all. They were aware of the 
little success which followed his course of wooing. They, 
perhaps, did not regret the loss so much as the disappoint- 
ment of one whom they so much loved. With the excep- 
tion of little Mary Beauchampe, Anna Cooke had not 
taken captive the fancy of either of the ladies. Jane posi- 
tively feared and disliked her, with the natural hostility 
which a person of light mind always entertains for one of 
intensity and character. Mrs. Beauchampe’s objections 
were of another kind ; but she had seen too little of their 
object, and was too willing to promote her son’s wishes, to 
attacli much importance to them. She had derived them 
rather from the casual criticisms of persons en passant^ 
than from anything which she herself had seen. 

It would have been no hard matter for Beauchampe, had 
ho been successful in his suit, to reconcile all the parties 
to his marriage. That he was unhappy in the rejection of 
his hand, made them so; and the feeling was the more 
painful as the event had made Beauchampe determine to 


181 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


depart on the ensuing day. He felt the necessity of doing 
so. Active life, the strifes of the politician, the triumphs 
of the forum, were at hand, offering him alternatives, if not 
atonements. In the whirl of successive performance, and 
in scenes that demand promptitude of action, he felt that he 
could alone dissipate the spell, or at least endure its 
weight with dignity, which the charms of Anna Cooke 
had imposed upon him. His resolution was declared ac- 
cordingly. 

It may be supposed that the distress of the little family 
made the scene dull. Much was said, and much of it was 
in the language of complaint. Poor Mary wept with a 
keen sense of disappointment, more like that of her brother 
than any one. Jane muttered her upbraidings of the 

scornful, high-headed, frowsy Indian Queen, who was too 
conceited to see that Orville was ten thousand times too 
good a match for such as she — while Mrs. Beauchampe, 
with the usual afflicting philosophy of age which has sur- 
vived passion, discoursed largely on the very encouraging 
text which counsels us to draw our consolation from our 
very hopelessness. Pretty counsel, with a vengeance ! 
Beauchampe thought it so. 

The torturous process to which these occasional remarks 
and venerable counsels subjected him, drove him forth at an 
early hour after dinner. Once more he traversed the woods 
in moody meditation. He inly resolved that he sliould see 
them the last time. With this resolve he determined to 
pay a personal visit to the spot where, at his coming, he 
had obtained the first sight of the woman, who, from that 
moment, had filled his sight entirely. He followed the 
sinuous course of the woods, slowly, moodily, chewing the 
cud of sad and bitter thought alone. 

His passion was in its subdued phase. There is a mo- 
ment of recoil in the excited heart, when the feelings long 
for repose. There is a sense of exhaustion — a dread of 
further strife and excitement, the very thought of which 


THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 


135 


makes us shudder ; and the one conviction over all which 
fills the mind, is that we could willingly lay ourselves down 
in the shady places, none near, and sleep — sleep the 
long sleep, in which there are no such tortures and tu- 
mults. 

Such were the feelings of Beauchampe, and thus languid, 
from this recoil, in the overcharged sensibilities, he went 
slowly forward, with a movement that denoted quite as 
much feebleness as grief. 

He was already buried in the thick woods — he fancied 
himself alone — when, suddenly, he heard a pistol-shot. 
He started, with a sudden recollection of a like sound, 
which had attracted his ears on his first approach to the 
same neighborhood. The coincidence was at least a strange 
one. 

He now determined to find out the practitioner. He 
paused for a few moments, and looked about him. He was 
not exactly sure of the quarter whence the sound proceed- 
ed ; but he moved forward cautiously, and at a venture. 
Suddenly he paused ! He discovered, at a distance, the 
person of the very woman whom he had been so long seek- 
ing — she whose obduracy denied him even the boon of a 
last look and farewell accent. 

His first impulse was to rush forward. A second and 
different impulse was forced on him by what he saw. To 
his astonished eyes she bore in her hands a pistol. He 
watched her while she loaded it. He saw her level it at a 
tree, and pull the trigger with unhesitating hand. The 
bark flew on every side, betraying, by the truth of her 
aim, at a considerable distance, the constancy of her prac- 
tice. 

Beauchampe could contain himself no longer. He now 
rushed forward. A faint cry escaped her as she beheld 
him She dropped the pistol by her side, clasped and cov- 
ered her face with her hands, and staggered back a few 
paces. 


136 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


But, before Beaucbampe reached her, she had recovered, 
and, picking up the pistol, she came forward. Her eye 
sparkled with an expression which showed something like 
resentment. Her voice was abrupt and sharp. 

“ You rush on your fate !” she exclaimed. “ Why, 
Beauchampe, do you thus pursue me, and risk your own 
destruction ?” 

“ At your hand, it is welcome !” he exclaimed, mistaking 
her meaning. 

“ I mean not that she replied. 

“ But you inflict it !” 

“No! no!” impatiently. “I do not. I have prayed 
against it — would spare you that and every risk ; but you 
will it otherwise ! You rush on your fate ; and if you 
dare, Beauchampe — mark me! if you dare — it is at your 
option. Heretofore, I have striven for you, and against 
myself; but you have forced yourself upon my privacy— 
you have sought to fathom my secrets — and it is now 
necessary that you should bear the penalty of forbidden 
knowledge !” 

“ Have 1 not supplicated you for these penalties ? Ah ! 
what pain — inflicted by your hand — would not be pleas- 
ure !” 

“You love me! — I believe you, Beauchampe; but the 
secret of my soul is the death-blow to your love ! Ah ! 
spare me ! — even now I would have you spare me. Go — 
leave me for ever ; press no farther into a mystery which 
must shock you to hear, shame me to speak, and leads — 
if it drives you not hence with the speed of terror — leads 
you to sorrow and certain strife, and possibly the cruelest 
doom.” 

“ Speak ! I brave all ! I am your bondsman, your slave. 
Declare the service: let me break down these barriers 
which divide us.” 

He caught her hand passionately in his as he spoke, and 
pressed it to his lips. She did not withdraw it. 


THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 


187 


‘‘ Beauchampe !” she said, with solemnity, fixing her 
dark, deep-glancing eyes upon his face — ‘‘ Beauchampe ! 
I will not swear you! You shall hear the truth, and 
still be free. Know, then, that you clasp a dishonored 
hand!’’ 


138 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 

The terrible words were spoken. The effect was in- 
stantaneous. He dropped the hand which he had grasped. 
A burning flush crimsoned the face of the woman ; an in- 
stant after, it was succeeded by the paleness of death. 

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, bitterly, and with cruel, 
keenness of utterance. “I knew that it would come to 
this. God ! this is thy creature man 1 In his selfishness 
ho destroys — in his selfishness he shames us. He pries 
into our hearts, to declare their weakness — to point out 
their spots — to say, ‘ See how I can triumph over, and 
trample upon ” 

“Anna!” exclaimed Beauchampe, in husky accents — 
“ speak not thus — think not thus. Give me but a moment’s 
time for thought. I was not prepared for this.” 

The young man looked like one in a dream. A ghastly 
expression marked his eyes. His lips were parted ; the 
muscles of his mouth were convulsed. 

“ Nay, sir, it needs not. Your curiosity is satisfied. 
There is nothing more.” 

“ Yes,” he exclaimed, “ there is !” 

“ There is !” she answered promptly. “ To clasp the 
dishonored hand, and take from its grasp the instrument 
of its vengeance. In a few words, Beauchampe, this hand 
can only be yours under one condition. Dishonored though 


THE VOW OP VENGEANCE. 139 

it is, I tell you, sir, never yet did woman subject man to 
more terrible conditions as the price of her love.” 

“ I take the hand,” he said, “ ere the condition is spoken.” 

“ No, Beauchampe, that can not be. You shall never 
say that I deceived you. As I shall insist on the fulfilment 
of the condition, so it is but fair that you be not hooded 
when you pledge yourself to its performance.” 

She withdrew the hand, which he offered to take, from 
his contact. 

“ This dishonored hand is pledged to vengeance on him 
who blackened it with shame. Hence its practice with the 
weapon of death. Hence the almost daily practice of the 
last five years. Here, in these woods, I pursue a sort of 
devotion, where Hate is the deity — Vengeance the officia- 
ting priest. I have consecrated my life to this one object. 
He who takes my hand must adopt my pledge — must de- 
vote himself also to the work of vengeance !” 

He seized it, and took the weapon from its grasp. With 
the pistol lifted to heaven, he exclaimed ; — 

“ The oath ! — I am ready !” 

Tears gushed from her eyes. She spoke in subdued ac- 
cents : — 

“ Five long years have I toiled with this delusive dream 
of vengeance ! But what can woman do ? Where can she 
seek — how find her victim? Think you, Orville Beau- 
charape, that if I could have met my enemy, I would have 
challenged the aid of man to do this work of retribution ? 
In my own soul was the strength. There is no feminine 
feebleness of nerve in this eye and arm ! I should have 
shot and struck — ah ! Christ !” 

She sunk to the ground with a spasm, which was the nat- 
ural effect of such passions working on such a temperament. 
The desperate youth knelt down beside her in an agony of 
equal passion and apprehension. He drew her to his breast, 
he glued his lips to her cheeks, scarcely conscious that she 
was lifeless all the while. 


140 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Her swoon, however, was momentary only. She recov 
cred even while he was olaying the madman in his fond- 
ness. 

Refusing his assistance, and pushing him from her, she 
staggered up, exclaimed, in piercing, trembling accents: — 

“ What have I done ? what have I said ?” 

“ Given me happiness, dearest,^’ he replied, attempting 
to take her hand. 

“ No, Beauchampe,” she answered, “ let me understand 
myself before I seek to understand you. I am scarcely 
able, though !” — and, as she spoke, she pressed her hands^ 
upon her eyes with an expression of pain. 

“ You are still sick he observed apprehensively. 

“ I am in pain, Beauchampe, not sick. I am used to 
these spasms. Do not let them alarm you. They are not 
deadly, and, if they were, I should not consider them dan- 
gerous. I know not well what I have said to you, Beau- 
champe, before this pain ; but as I never have these attacks 
unless the agony of mind becomes too intense for one to 
bear and live, I conclude that I have told you all. You 
know my secret — my shame !” 

“ I know that you are the noblest-hearted woman that 
ever lived he exclaimed rapturously. 

“ Do not mock me, Beauchampe,” she answered mildly. 
“ Speak not in language of such extravagance. You can 
not speak too soberly for my ears, you can not think too 
soberly for your own good. You have heard my secret. 
You have forced me to declare my shame ! You had no 
right to this secret. Was it not enough that I told you 
that the barrier was impassable between us ? Did I not 
swear it solemnly ?” 

“ It is not impassable.” 

“ It is !” 

“ No !” he exclaimed with looks and accents equally de- 
cisive, “this is no barrier. You have been wronged — 
your confidence has been abused. That I understand. I 


THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 


141 


care not to know more. I believe you to be all that is 
pure and honorable now ; and, in this faith, I am all yours. 
In this faith I pray you to be mine.” 

“ Bcc^uchampe, this is not all ! Mere love, though it be 
such as yours — simple faith, though so generous and con- 
fiding — these do not suffice. The food is sweet, but it has 
little nutriment. My soul is already familiar with higher 
stimulants. It needs them — it can not do without thtjin. 
I do not ask the man who makes me his wife, to believe 
only that I can be true to him — and will! — I demand 
something more than a confidence like this, Beauchampe : 
my husband must avenge my dishonor. This is the condi- 
tion of my hand. Dishonored as it is, it has a heavy price, 
lie must devote his life to the work of retribution. To 
this he must swear himself.” 

“ I am already sworn to it. The moment which revealed 
your wrong, bound me as your avenger. You shall only 
point to your enemy — ” 

“ Ah, Beauchampe, could I have done so, I should not 
have needed to stain your hands with his blood. But he 
eludes my sight. I hear nowhere of him. He is as if he 
had never been. 

“ His name !” said Beauchampe. 

“ You shall know all,” she replied, motioning him to a 
seat beside her on the trunk of a fallen tree. ‘‘ You shall 
know all, Beauchampe, from first to last. It is due to you 
that nothing should be withheld.” 

“ Spare yourself, dearest,” said Beauchampe tenderly. 

Tell me nothing, I implore you, but the name of your 
enemy, and what may be necessary for the work of ven- 
geance.” 

“ I will tell you all. It is my pride that I should not 
spare myself. It is due to my present self to show that I 
am not blind to the weaknesses of my former nature. It 
is due to what I am, to convince you that I can never again 
be what I liave been. 0 Beauchampe ! I have meditated 


112 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


often and sadly, since I have known you, the necessity of 
making this revelation. At our first meeting, my heart 
said to myself, ‘ The love by which I was betrayed has at 
length sent me an avenger!’ I saw it in your instant 
glances — in the generous earnestness of your looks and 
tones — in the fervent expression of your eye — in the 
frank, impetuous nature of your soul ! But I said to my- 
self : — 

“ ‘ I will deny myself this avenger. I will reject the in- 
stinct that tells me he is sent as one. Why should I involve 
this noble young man in a fate so desperate and sad as 
mine ? It shall not be 1’ With this resolve, I strove against 
you. Nay, Beauchainpe, I confess to you farther, that, 
even when my will strove most against you, my heart was 
most earnest in your favor. With my increasing regard 
for you, grew my reluctance to involve you in my doom. 
The conflict was close and trying ; and then, when the strife 
in my mind was greatest, I meditated what I should reveal 
to you. I went over that long and cruel memory in the 
deep silence of these woods — in the deeper silence of mid- 
night in my chamber : I could not escape from the stern 
necessity which compelled the remembrance of those mo- 
ments of bitterness and shame. By frequent recall, they 
have been revived in all their burning freshness ; every 
art of the traitor — the blind steps by which I fell — the 
miserable mockeries which deluded me — and the shame 
which, like a lurid cloud, dusk and fiery, has ever since 
hung before my eyes! All this I can relate — his crime 
and my folly — nor omit one fraction which is necessary to 
the truth.” 

But why tell all this, dearest? Let it be forgotten — 
let all be forgotten, except the name of the villain whom it 
is allotted me to destroy.” 

“ Forgotten ? It can not be forgotten I Nay, more, it is 
a duty to remember it, that the vengeance may not sleep. 
Beauchampe, I have lived for years on this one thought. 


THE VOW OP VENGEANCE. 


143 


By recalling these bitter memories, that thought was fed. 
Do not persuade me to forget them. You know not how 
much of life depends on the sustenance which thought de- 
rives from this copious but polluted fountain. Deprive me 
of this sustenance, and I perish. Deny me to declare all, 
and I can speak nothing. I can not curb my nature when 
I will ; and where would you gather the fuel of anger, 
should I barely say to you that one Alfred Stevens — an 
artful stranger from a distant city — found me a simple, 
vain child among the hills, and, practising on my vanity, 
overcame my strength ? This would serve but little in 
rousing that fierce fire of hate within you which sometimes, 
even in my own bosom, burns quite too faintly to be efifect- 
ual. No, no ! you shall witness the progress of the crimi- 
nal. You shall see how he spun his web around my path 
— my soul! — by what mousing cunning he contrived to 
pull down a wing whose feeblest fancy, in those unconscious 
days, was above the mountains, and striving ever for the 
clouds. You shall see the daily records of its spasms, 
which my misery has made. To feel my struggle, you must 
share in it from the first.” 

He took her hand in his, and prepared to listen. 

“You will feel my hand tremble,” said she; “the flush 
may suffuse my cheek ; for, oh ! do not suppose I tell this 
tale willingly. No ! I can not help but tell it. An instinct, 
which I dare not disobey, commands me ; and truly, when 
I think of the instinct which told me that you would come 
— made you known to me as the avenger from the first mo- 
ment when I saw you — and has thus forced you, as it were, 
in my own despite, upon my fearful secret — I almost feel 
that there is a divine, at least a fated compulsion, in tho 
mood which now prompts me to tell you all. It is a neces- 
sity. I feel it pressing upon me as a duty. It is like that 
Fate which coerced the ancient mariner into the report of 
nis marvellous progress, and compelled the listener to hear. 
It must be told ; and you, Beauchampe, can not help but 


144 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


hear. A power beyond mine own has willed it, and there- 
fore you are here now. It chains us both. It wills that I 
should speak, and speak nothing but the truth. I can even 
suppress nothing. I am not able to control my own utter- 
ance. May the same power endue me with the strength to 
speak the history of my bitter, bitter shame 

And, in truth, Beauchampe, like herself, was under a 
spell. He could not have torn himself away under any 
conditions, or with any impulse. He was fastened to the 
spot — not by her arts, for she sternly rejected any help of 
art, save that which naturally belonged to her own remark- 
able genius — not by the charms of her beauty, for her face 
now had more of terror in it than beauty — not by any sym- 
pathy which might arise from pity, for, as he looked into 
the sombre grandeur of her eyes, and the stern power of 
soul, and will, and mind, which declared itself in every 
feature of her countenance, in every action of her form, he 
felt that awe, not pity, was the most natural sentiment 
which she inspired. 

Under the spell he sat beside her. Under a like spell— 
tlie imagination, in both, being the Prospero, the master 
of the magic wand — she spoke. And how — the first cho- 
king effort at utterance being overcome — how clearly, sim- 
ply, sternly, she laid bare the whole cruel history, even as 
we have already told it — nothing suppressed, nothing ob- 
scured ; no idle apologies for weakness offered — no excuses 
urged in behalf of sinful impulses. She spared herself in 
nothing. She laid herself bare to discovery, to keen analy- 
sis, to the most critical inspection. Governed, as she felt 
or fancied, by some supernatural influence, there was a ter- 
rible earnestness, an unequivocal intenseness and directness, 
in all she revealed, that would have left the most captious 
attorney at a loss for the opportunity to cross-examine. 
There was no attempt at glozing artifice, at adroit insinua- 
tion or suggestion, by which to soften the darker colors — 
to relieve the doubtful — to conceal what had been her real 


THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 


14.0 


errors, weaknesses, and vicious desires. All the character- 
istics of her soul — its follies, faults, foibles, vices — were 
all made apparent : but through all, equally apparent, was 
the proud spirit, falling chiefly through pride, the noble 
nature, the ingenuous ambition, the lustrous and winged 
genius ! 

\ 


8EAUCHAMPJL 


14t> 


CHAPTl R XIII. 

THE BETROTHAL. 

“ I drink of the intoxicating cup, 

And find it rapture. Yet, methinks I feel 
As if a madness mingled with the sweet, 

And dashed it with a bitter.” 

What a hush for a moment Imiig over the forest when 
she ceased to speak ! 

The story was ended. 

For a few moments, Beauchampe sat immoveable, as if 
slowly recovering from a spell. Th^.i suddenly he shook 
himself free, started up with a cry of mingled joy and pain, 
and clasped her in his wild embrace. 

His passion had undergone increase, .^e vas no longer 
master of his pulses. Her superior will /lad already made 
itself felt in all the sinews of his soul. Every beat and 
bound of his heart was full of the exquisite fascination. 

She extricated herself from his grasp. Her breathing 
came with effort. She pressed her hand upon her side, as 
if with a sudden sense of pain ; then looked up, and met 
his eager glance with eyes which were so fixed, so glassily 
stern, that he looked alaiuned, and clasped her hands in 
his own. 

She was, in truth, deadly pale — but, oh, how strong! 

“ Fear nothing,” she said, in a whisper ; “ it is nothing. 
I shall soon be well,” 

And a brief silenoo ensued between them, he gazing still 
with apprehension into her eyes. 


THE BETROTHAL. 


117 


“ Look not thus, Beauchampe. I am better now. The 
pain is gone. I am used to it. It always comes with any 
great excitement, and this to-day has been a terrible one. 
I feared I should not have strength for it. Thank God, it 
is over — and — and — I am better now.” 

And she laughed hysterically. 

Anna Cooke was wonderfully strong, but she was yet a 
woman. She had overtasked herself. She sank, a mo- 
ment after, in a fainting-fit, upon the sward. 

Beauchampe was terrified. He called her name, and re- 
ceived no answer. He ran off to a well-remembered brook- 
let, some two hundred yards distant, over which a gourd 
was suspended from a tree. lie hurried back with it full 
of water, and found her recovering. She drank freely, 
bathed her face and forehead in the liquid, and felt re- 
lieved. 

“And now, Beauchampe — now that you have heard all 

— now that you see and understand the full nature of the 
conditions imposed upon you — the fearful nature of the 
penalty — the crime, and its terrible consequences — I re- 
lease you from your pledge! Be free! Go — leave me! 
I would not have your young and generous soul burdened 
with the sting, the sin, the agony, and the resolve, of mine !” 

This was said, how mournfully, but with what sincerity ! 

— with that utter sclf-abandomcnt which denotes the recoil 
and the subsidence of powerful and now-exhausted energies ! 

“ Oh! how can you speak thus!” he answered reproach- 
fully. “ I would not be released. I ask not even respite. 
Your cause is mine — your wrongs ! I feel them all ! Your 
vengeance — I have sworn to accomplish it. It is now my 
passion not less than yours. Nay, more, I would have you 
dismiss it from youj' soul ! I would have it exclusively my 
own !” 

“ And you are still willing, burdened with this poor 
wreck of youth, and virtue, and beauty — and with this ter- 
rible necessity — to undergo the consciousness of the world’s 


148 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


mock — nay, to see its skinny pointing finger, and hear its 
venomous tongue, as it mutters, while I pass, the cruel 
story of my shame!’’ 

“ I will make that story yet a memorial of virtuous ven- 
geance, to be remembered in Kentucky when we are both 
in the dust 1” was tlie vehement answer, while the eyes of 
the speaker flashed fire, and his hand was outwaved as if 
challenging the whole world’s voice and ear. He con- 
tinued : — 

“ If that story is to be told again, Margaret Cooper — 
for so, this once, will I call you — it shall sound as an omi- 
nous voice of terror, speaking doom and sudden judgment 
to the cold-blooded profligates who pride themselves on the 
serpent conquest over all that is blessing and beautiful in 
the world’s Eden !” 

The tears rolled down her cheeks. She had not thus 
wept before — never once had such tears covered her 
cheeks even in the moments of her bitterest remorse and 
suffering. 

“ Do not weep!” he said ; “ I can not bear to see you 
weep.” 

“ It is for the last time,” she answered, almost prophet- 
ically. 

“ What, indeed, had she to do with tears ? They could 
not speak for passions, and such an agony as hers. Then, 
timidly, he laid one hand upon her wrist, while the other 
crept about her waist. And she shuddered. He felt the 
convulsive shiver, and withdrew his grasp. He whis- 
pered : — 

“ You are now to be mine — mine — you remember !” 

“ Alas ! for you, Beauchampe, that it is so. It is not too 
late ! You are still free to go. It is a ruin — not a heart, 
that I can give you !” 

“ Be it so ! The ruin shall be more precious to my soul 
than the glory .only born to-day. 

‘‘ Leave me now, Beauchampe. Do not seek me again 


THE BETROTHAL. 


149 


until to-morrow. I would sleep to-day. I need sleep 
sleep — more than anything besides. I have not slept once 
since I penned you that letter.” 

“ Good Heavens ! can it be possible ? Oh ! you must 
sleep. Shall I not see you home at once V 

“ No ! leave me, Beauchampe. I will find ray way homo 
after awhile. Leave me — will you not !” 

“Yes — but Anna, let me take this weapon. It is mine 
now, remember, not yours ! Here, with this hour, Anna, 
your practice ends — ends with the necessity.” 

“ Take it. Hide it from my sight.” 

He possessed himself of the pistol, which he thrust hur- 
riedly into his pocket, and then suddenly embracing and 
kissing her, he cried : — 

“This, Anna — this — seals every vow, whether of love 
or vengeance !” 

She waved him off, and as he disappeared slowly, she 
hurried still deeper into the wood. What were her medi- 
tations there ? Who shall say ? They were entertained 
for hours in deepest silence, were mournful, yet of uncer- 
tain character — now marked by a sense of relief which was 
momentary only, and still followed by a great cloud-like 
doubt, and vague, dark terror which seemed to stretch and 
spread over all the prospect. 

And this cloud she could not disperse — slie could not 
penetrate. It was ominous, she fancied, of her future. 

“ Oh, God !” she exclaimed, “ if I have erred — if I have 
covered my soul with a new sin in thus involving this gen- 
erous young man in my fate — in thus binding his soul with 
my own to the blind fury of this wild revenge which I have 
sworn.” 

Strange that she should doubt in this regard. Strange 
that human being in a Christian land should really fancy for 
a moment that God’s sanction should hallow the purposes 
of a bloody vengeance. But, even thus wild and mistaken 
in their supposed sanctions are half the purposes of hu- 


150 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


manity. The disordered judgment, governed by an imagi- 
nation which the blood has wrought up to delirious dreams 
and excesses, can always evoke a sanction for all its pur- 
poses, from some terrible demon wearing the aspect of 
divinity ! 

And this false god whispered his encouragement audibly 
to her senses, until she grew satisfied — calmer — resolved 
— confirmed in all her purposes. 

When she returned home and met her mother, she said, 
as quietly as possible : — 

“ Your wishes are answered, mother. I have seen 
Beauchampe. I have consented to be his wife !” 

“ Have you, indeed, Margaret ! Oh ! I am so glad. He 
is such an excellent young man, and of such a good family. 
Oh ! you will be happy now, I know !” 

“ Happy exclaimed the girl with a look of scorn, min- 
gled with surprise. “ How can you fancy that there should 
be happiness for me 

“ And why not, Margaret ? Who knows of what’s done 
and past ?” 

“ He knows ! I have told Beauchampe the whole of my 
history.” 

“ What !” almost with a scream. “ You don’t mean to 
say that you’ve been such a fool as to tell him about what 
happened at Charlemont — about Alfred Stevens ! ” 

“ All ! I have withheld nothing !” 

The old woman threw up her eyes and hands with a sort 
of terror. 

“ And he consents to marry you after all !” 

“ Yes !’ 

“I don’t believe it will ever come to that! No — no I 
Men are not such fools ! Oh ! Margaret, what could pos- 
sess you to tell him that?^^ 

“ Truth, justice ! I could do no less. Had I not told 
him, I had deserved my fate !” 

She left the room as she said this, and hurried to the sol 


THE BETROTHAL. 


151 


itude of her own. The mother, when she was gone, ex- 
pressed her horror and her wonder, at what she deemed 
the insane proceeding of her daughter, in more copious 
language than before. 

“ It’s just like her. She was always different from every- 
body else. Now what woman of any sense would have 
told of such things to the very man that was offering her 
marriage. What a fool — what a fool! If Beauchampe 
comes back, then he’s the fool 1 But he’ll never come 
again. No — no ! when he’s cooled off, and begun to think 
over the matter, he’ll go with a spur. That a daughter of 
mine should be such a fool. But she don’t take a bit after 
me. All her foolishness comes from her father. Cooper 
was a fool too. He was for ever a-doing, a-thinking, and 
a-saying, things different from everybody else. And he, 
too, would call it truth, and right, and justice ; as if any- 
body had any reason to think of such matters, when it’s a 
clear case of interest and safety a-pinting all the other 
way. Such a fool-daugiiter as she is 1 We’ll see if he 
comes again. And I reckon it’s her only chance; and 
even if she had another, with as good a man, she’d be doing 
and telling the same thing over again. Such a fool — 
such a fool ! But I’ll put on my bonnet, and go over and 
see the Beauchampes, and see what they’ve got to say 
about it.” 

And she prepared herself ; but just as she was about to 
sally forth, her daughter reappeared, and arrested her at 
the entrance. She had divined her mother’s purposes, know- 
ing something of her usual follies. 

“ Do not go to Mrs. Beauchampe’s, mother.” 

“ And why not, if all’s true that you’ve been telling me ?” 

“You do not doubt its truth, mother, I know. Why I 
wish you not to go, is for a good reason of my own. I 
must only repeat that you must not go there now. A few 
days hence, mother, and only after some of them have come 
hero.” 


152 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


All ! 1 see ! You have your fears too, Margaret, that 
it’s all a flash-in-the-pan, and that he’ll be off ; and that’s 
the very reason why I would go. We must clinch the nail 
before it draws.” 

The face of Margaret was full of ineffable scorn. 

“ You must not go, mother. Beauchampe is not to be 
detained, should he desire to depart, by any argument that 
you can offer ; and if he goes — well ! I have no fear that 
he will go, and if such were really his inclination, I should 
be the first to encourage it. You do not understand either 
of us. Meddle not. You can make nothing — may mar 
everything, and will certainly mortify me ! Wait ! The 
Beauchampes must now seek you, not you them !” 

The will of the daughter prevailed as usual, though her 
own will remained a grumbling discontent. Margaret, 
having attained her purpose, retired again to her chamber, 
wasting no unnecessary words in answer to the growling 
dissatisfaction, that still seemed inclined to pursue her. 
The old woman had set her mind upon the visit and yielded 
very reluctantly — perhaps would not have yielded but for 
the threat of Margaret, sternly expressed, that if she inter- 
fered one bit in the matter, she would herself break away 
from the engagement. The mother too well knew the im- 
perious nature of the daughter, not to feel the danger of in- 
curring her resentment, after such a warning. She con- 
tented herself with the reflection that : — 

“ Margaret was a fool always, and nothing seemed to 
better her sense. Beauchampe” — she was sure — “will 
be certain to bolt as soon as he gets cooler and thinks over 
the matter.” 

But Beauchampe did not bolt ! 

When he reached home, he hardly suffered himself to 
enter the house, before he cried out to his mother and sis- 
ters : — 

It’s all settled ! I’m so happy, mother. 0 girls ! all’s 


THE BETROTHAL. 153 

right. I shaVt leave you now for a long* time — perhaps 
never, and we shall all be so happy together.” 

“ Why, what’s the matter, Orville ? What has so un- 
settled you demanded the mother. 

“ Do tell us, brother, what’s made you so happy ? What 
has so excited you ?” demanded Jane. 

But Mary, the more sagacious as the more sympathizing, 
said at once, while she flung her arms about the neck of her 
brother : — 

Ah ! I know ; Anna Cooke has consented !” 

“ She has — she has ! What a good guesser. You are 
my dear little sister. Ah ! Mary understands her brother 
better than you all.” 

“ So ! she has consented ?” said the mother, somewhat 
deliberately. “ And did she give you any explanation, 
Orville, of her previous refusal — so stern, so peremptory ?” 

“Yes, Orville, how did she excuse herself? What ex- 
planation did she give ?” demanded Jane. 

“ Explanation !” exclaimed the brother, a cloud suddenly 
covering his brow. “Ay! she gave me full — ample ex- 
planation.” 

“ Well ! what was it ?” 

“ Enough, mother,- that it was perfectly satisfactory to 
me. I am satisfied. Let us say no more on that subject. 
You will believe me when I tell you that I am satisfied. 
Further, 1 do not mean to say. She is now mine 1 all 
mine ! and I am happy.” 

“ God grant, Orville, that it be so !” answered the mother 
in grave accents. “ Yet these so sudden changes, Orville, 
are strange to me, at least. But I will not cloud your hap- 
piness with a single doubt. I trust in God that she will 
bring you happiness, my son.” 

“ Oh I never doubt, dear mother. She is a glorious 
creature — noble, beautiful — all that should bring a man 
happiness.” 

Happiness is not a creature of wild impulses and of 

r 


154 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


great excitements ; nor is the glory of beauty, however un- 
paralleled, nor the fascinations of genius, however power- 
ful, the best guaranty of happiness — which needs sympathy, 
and security, above all things, and loves the shade rather 
than the sun ; longing for quiet not turbulent waters, and 
rather keeping the passions in leash, than goading them into 
perpetual exercise by stimulating means. 

Somehow, the wild joy of Beauchampe did not seem to 
his mother the best guaranty for his happiness. There was 
something prescient in the thoughts of the old lady, which 
made her sigh over the unborn future. 


THE BRIDAL. 


155 


CHAPTER XIY. 

THE BRIDAL. 

Why, look you, sir, I can be c.ilni as Silence 
All the -vrliilc music plays. Strike on, sweet friend, 

As mild and men-y as tlie heart of Innocence : 

I prithee, take my temper. Has a virgin 
A heat more modest I” — Middleton. 

A VAST change had certainly been wrought, within a very 
few hours, in the moods and feelings of Beauchampe. He 
had gone forth weary, dispirited, humbled, hopeless: he 
had returned bounding, wild, excited to enthusiastic meas- 
ures — assured, within himself, of the attainment of every 
mortal desire that was precious. 

But we can not call him a happy man — or one, indeed, 
whose prospect of happiness was very promising. We 
would not misuse that word, as we fear that it is too fre- 
quently misused. It is one the necessity for which is very 
rare in the ordinary progress of society and life. Its abso- 
lute significance is really to be found only in future condi- 
tions. But we need not go into any analysis of its propriety 
in common parlance. Enough that it deludes most people, 
at some period or another in their lives. 

Beauchampe said he was happy — very happy — and he 
believed what he said, and his mother and sisters wished 
to believe, and Mary certainly did believe, quite as fer- 
vently as her brother himself. Certainly, if a man in a 
state of pleasant delirium may be considered happy, then 
Beauchampe was ! 


166 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


But happiness is scarcely consistent with any very great 
intensity of passion, excited to sleeplessness in the absorb- 
ing pursuit of a single object, particularly when the condi- 
tion of the conquest implies trials, and struggles, and fears, 
and dangers, the measure of which no mind can compass, 
the end of which no mind can foresee ! 

Beauchampe had w^on the consent of the woman whom 
he had sought with all the intensity of a first passion. All 
young men find it easy to persuade themselves that such a 
condition must satisfy all the longings of the heart. 

But young men build on the sands, and kindle their fires 
too frequently with dry straw, which blazes fearfully at 
first, but dies out, leaves no warmth, and covers the land- 
scape with blackened stubble and fine ashes. 

Beauchampe was not deceived, in a single respect, by or 
with the woman he had won. She was the very person 
that she appeared and claimed to be. She had concealed 
nothing from him — worn no mask — put on no disguises — 
nay, piercing her own heart, and laying bare its most hid- 
den places, she had shown him, so far as she herself could 
find and understand them, the very motives, moods, inter- 
ests, impulses, of her soul — which had informed her ac- 
tions, and might inform them still — as, perhaps, no woman 
had ever shown them to lover before. If he yet labored 
under any delusion in respect to her, she was not the cause 
of it. Her pride, as well as just sense of his claims, had 
been at pains to strip herself of all things which might be 
calculated to delude. The very secret of her dishonor w'as 
revealed only because she was sworn to honor. 

And he acknowdedged no delusions. He was satisfied — 
as he thought, happy — and at first his joy was a delirium. 
She was the peerless creature, the woman among a world 
of women, such as he had thought her at first. 

But we can not govern or restrain the imperious thought 
which works its way in the brain and soul, secretly, even 
as the mole in the garden ; and we never dream of what is 


THE BRIDAL. 


157 


going on below, even though the loveliest flower in our 
Eden is perishing at the roots. 

After a few days, though Beauchampe still exulted, his 
mother fancied that his mind seemed jaded and wearied, 
his fancy had lost its wing, his eyes were heavy, yet wan- 
dering. He himself was quite unconscious of these exter- 
nal shows of the secret nature, but he too had a conscious- 
ness which disturbed his imagination. The very fact that 
his betrothal was so unlike that of any man of whom he 
had ever heard or read — that it was under such conditions 
— compelled his thought to a serious yet vague exercise of 
study, such as did not well comport with the unreasoning 
confidence which, perhaps, marks the presence of the most 
happy sort of love. Still, as yet, he did not exactly reason 
on the subject. He could not. The mind was exerting 
itself through the imagination, experimentally, as it were, 
sending out feelers into this or that region of the brain — 
sounding them — then withdrawing, to touch some* other 
place. 

The effect was, to bring into the otherwise bright atmo- 
sphere which surrounded him the perpetual presence of one 
small but dark and threatening cloud. He rubbed his eyes, 
but it was there. He looked away, but, when he turned 
his glance again upon the spot, it remained, steady and 
threatening as before. 

Was there a Fate hidden in that cloud ? Did it contain 
the evil principle, shadowing his progress, or was it simply 
the presentiment of evil — a benignant warning against the 
dangers yet wrapped in mystery? Was it the ominous 
sign of that fierce condition of hate which had been pre- 
scribed to him as the condition of love ? Could Love pre- 
scribe such a condition — require such a sacrifice? Was 
it possible for that meek sentiment — so holy, so certainly 
from heaven — so celestial an element in the economy of 
heaven — was it possible for such a sentiment so openly to 
toil in behalf of its most deadly antipathy ? Love laboring 


158 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


for Hrtv- \ \i well might bring a cloud into the moral at- 
mosphere cl Xlv'.auchampe’s soul, when he thought of these 
conditiona. 

And yet Anna Cooke had really learned to love Beau- 
ahampe. There is nothing contradictory or strange in 
this. We have painted badly, unless the reader is pre- 
pared for such a seeming caprice in her character as this. 
She is, whatever may be her boast, scarcely wiser than 
when she was eighteen. All entliusiasm and earnestness, 
she was all confidence then. She is so still. Her impres- 
sions are sudden and decided. She sees that Beauchampe 
is generous and noble-minded. She has discerned the loy- 
alty of his character, and the liberality of his disposition. 
She finds him intellectual. His frankness wins upon her 
— his unqualified devotion does the rest. She sees in him 
the agent of that wild passion which had kept goading her 
without profit before ; and Love, in reality, avails himself 
of a very simple artifice to effect his purposes. It is Love 
that insinuates to her, ‘ Here comes your avenger!’ — and, 
deceived by him, she obeys one passion, when, at the time, 
she really fancies she is toiling in behalf of its antagonist. 

See the further argument — felt, not expressed — of this 
wily logician ! 

He suggests to her that it is scarcely possible that Beau- 
champe will ever be called upon to fulfil his fearful pledges. 
For, where is the betrayer ? For five years had the name 
been unspoken in the ears of his victim ; for five years he 
had eluded all traces of herself and friends. He was gone, 
as if he had not been ; and the presumption was strong that 
he was of some very distant region ; that he would be very 
careful to avoid that neighborhood, hereafter, in which his 
crime had been committed : and as, in equal probability, 
the lot was cast which made this limited scene the whole 
world of Beauchampe's future life, so it followed that they 
would never meet ; that the trial, to which she had sworn 
him, would never be exacted ; and, subdued by time, and 


THE BRIDAL. 


159 


the absence of the usual excitements, the pang would be 
softened in her heart, the recollection would gradually fade 
from her memory, and life would once more be a progress 
of comparative peace, and probably of innocent enjoyment. 

It is an adroit, and not an infrequent policy of Love, to 
make his approaches under the cover of a flag which none 
is so pleased to trample under foot as he. He knows the 
usual practices of war, and has no conscientious scruples 
in the employment of an ordinary ruse. The drift of his 
policy was not seen by the mind of Anna Cooke ; but it 
was — though less obvious than some of her instincts — not 
the less an instinct. Nay, more certainly an instinct, for it 
was of the emotions ; while those of which she had spoken 
to Beauchampe were nothing more than the suggestions of 
monomania. Her imagination, brooding ever on the same 
topic, was always on the watch to convert all objects into 
its agents ; and never more ready than when Love, coming 
forward with his suggestions, lent that seeming aid to his 
enemy which was really intended for his overthrow. It 
was only when she had become the wife of Beauchampe 
that she became aware of the true nature of those feelings 
which had brought about her marriage. It was after the 
tie was indissolubly knit — after he had pressed his lips to 
hers with a husband’s kiss — that she was made conscious 
of the danger to liersclf from the performance of the condi- 
tions to which he was pledged. The fear of his danger 
first taught her that it was love, and not the mere passion 
for revenge, which had wrought within her from the mo- 
ment when she first met him. The moment she reflected 
upon the risk of life to which he was sworn, that moment 
awakened in her bosom the full appreciation of his worth. 
Then, instead of urging upon him the subject of his oath, 
she shuddered but to think upon it ; and, in her prayers — 
for she suddenly had learned to pray — she implored that 
the trial might be spared him, to which, previously, her 
whole soul had entirely been surrendered. 


IGO 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


But she prayed in vain — possibly because she had learned 
to pray so lately. Ah ! how easy would be all lessons of 
good — how easy of attainment and of retention — did we 
only learn to pray sufficiently soon ! The habit of prayer 
is so sure to induce humility ! and humility is, after all, and 
before all, one of the most certain sources of that divine 
strength, arising from love and justice, which sustains the 
otherwise falling and fearful world of our grovelling hu- 
manity. 

The wife of Beauchampe prayed beside him while he 
slept. She prayed for mercy. She prayed against that 
fatal oath. Far better — such was her thought — that the 
criminal should escape for ever, than that her husband’s 
hands should carry the dagger of the avenger. She now, 
for the first time, recognised the solemn force, the terrible 
emphasis, in the Divine assurance — “ Vengeance is mine !” 
saith the Lord. She was now willing that the Lord should 
exercise his sovereign right. 

But all this is premature. This change in her heart and 
mind was only now in slow and unsuspected progress. It 
required time, the aetual formation of the new ties, the 
actual exercise of the feminine duties in an humble and as 
yet happy household. Up to the moment of her marriage, 
there had been no change in her heart or its purposes, such 
as moved her to any cliange in the conditions of the mar- 
riage. Far from it. When, on the contrary, the time ap- 
proached, she summoned Beauchampe to a private interview 
the afternoon before the nuptials. They met, by appoint- 
ment, in the same wood where the engagement had been 
made. Her sombre spirit was on her, wrapping her as in a 
pall ; and, at his approach, she said abruptly and sternly : 

“ Beauchampe, the time has come. But it is not too 
late. You are at liberty, even now, to withdraw from 
these bonds. If you will it, Beauchampe, you are free 
from this moment, and shall never hear reproach of 
mine.” 


THE BRIDAL. 


161 


Jle rejected the boon proffered him, with indignant but 
loving reproaches. 

“ Have you summoned me for this, Anna 

“ No ! not for this only — in part. It was due to you to 
afford you a last opportunity of escaping the terrible condi- 
tions upon which only can my hand be given. This, you 
know, was my oath. It requires yours. If you persist in 
claiming my hand — swear to avenge its dishonor 

And she lifted up her hands in solemn adjuration, and 
he obeyed her ; and there, in that silent solitude, he uttered 
audibly the oath to avenge her shame — to sacrifice her 
seducer, at bloody altars, the moment he should be found ! 

And it was as if the demons of the air which had inspired, 
trooped round to receive, the oath ; for the sky darkened 
above them, even as the vow was uttered, and the awful 
stillness of the wood was as if the spirits were all listening 
breathlessly. 

“ Enough, Beauchampe ! It is done. To-morrow I am 
yours !” 

And, with these words, she left him — no kiss, no em- 
brace, no look or word of tenderness. 

But ho looked for none — expected none. It was not a 
moment, nor were the moods of either suitable, for caresses. 
He looked up at the cloud as she went from sight, and 
enveloped in it, as he thought, for more than an hour he 
walked that wood, his fancies sublimed with the terrible 
oath which he had taken, and his whole soul shadowed as it 
were with the stately pall of velvet in some great solemnity. 

The marriage followed the next day. The bride was 
calm and very pale, but firm and placid. Beauchampe’s 
eye was eager and bright, and his cheeks flushed with hope 
and triumph. He felt sure that he was happy ; and the 
cloud seemed to disappear from before his sight, and, for 
the moment, his landscape was without a speck. 

And, in the sight of his joy, the mother and the sisters 
forgot their apprehension ; and they took the bride to their 


162 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


hearts as warmly as if they had never felt upon their souls 
the shadow of a doubt. But, even as the bi-idal vow was 
taken, Fear took the place of Hate in the soul of the bride, 
and she shuddered, she knew not why, at the kiss of her 
husband, which, as it declared the warmth of his passion, 
brought up in dark array before her eyes the images and 
events of terror to which that kiss had pledged him for 
ever ! 


THE HONEYMOON. 


m 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE HONEYMOON. 

“ What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. 

The violets bed’s not sweeter.” — Middleton. 

“ Oh ! I distrust this happiness ; it seems 
Too exquisite to last. I fancy clouds 
Already gather on the sky of bliss .” — Old Play. 

They were now man and wife. The bond, for weal or 
wo, was indissolubly fastened. But, for the present, we 
must not speak of wo. It did not now seem to threaten 
the happy household, of which Beauchampe was now the 
lord. In the novel joy of his situation, the enthusiastic young 
man lost sight of days and weeks and months. With very 
happiness he grew idle — the mind conquered by the heart. 
Law and politics were alike forgotten. He had no call to 
them at present. He was in a dream — in a dream-land 
like that of Eden, in which toil was a stranger, and care, 
that ever-intriguing toad was kept off by the Ithuriel spear 
of pleasure. He could have mused away life in this man- 
ner — never once conscious of the flight of time — there, 
amid groves of unbroken shade, with the one companion. 
And she — did she share the happiness which she imparted ? 
Did the cruel fate relax in his persecutions ? In the em- 
braces of that fond young heart, did she forget the sting 
and agony of the past — did she lose herself a moment in 
the new dream of a fresh and better existence ? 


184 


BEAUCHAMPH. 


It is but reasonable to suppose that she did. She sang 
now, and her voice was a very rich and powerful one — 
combining the soul and strength of man with the sweetness 
and freedom of the bird. While her voice, in musing 
thought, subdued by humility to devotion, was full of a 
charming philosophy — social yet imaginative always — 
which would not have been unworthy of the lips of a divine 
priestess officiating among the oaks of Dodona, her soul, 
aroused by the sympathies of an ear which she wished to 
please, never poured forth strains of such sweet eloquence 
and song. She could improvise both verse and music. She 
resumed her pen and wrote as well as sang ; and her verses 
grew less and less sombrous daily. 

Beauchampe was all happiness. He had found a muse 
and a woman in one ! Surely, they were, neither of them, 
unhappy then ! 

But the fates were not satisfied, even if their victims 
were forgetful. It was decreed that our hero should be 
awakened from his dream of happiness. One day a letter 
was put into Beauchampe’s hands. He read it with a 
cloudy brow. 

“ No bad news, Beauchampe ?” was the remark of his 
wife, expressed with some solicitude. 

“ Yes,” he answered tenderly. “Yes, for I am forced 
to leave you for awhile. Bead.” 

He handed her the letter as he spoke. She read as fol- 
lows : — 

“ Dear Beauchampe: — The campaign has opened with 
considerable vigor, and we feel the want of you. The 
sooner you come to the rescue the better. We must put 
all our lieutenants into the field. This fellow, Calvert, is 
said to be doing execution among our pigeons. He is quite 

successful on the stump. At G he carried everything 

before him, and fairly swept Jenkins and Clemens out of 
sight. He is to address the people at Bowling-Green on 


THE HONEYMOON. 


165 


the 7th, and you must certainly meet us there ; or, shall 
I take you on my way down ? Barnabas comes with me. 
He insists that we shall need every help, and is decidedly 
aguish. He has somehow contrived to make me a little 
apprehensive that we have been too confident, and ac- 
cordingly a little remiss. He reports this man, Calvert, 
as a sort of giant, and openly asserts him to be one of 
the most able, popular orators we have ever had. He 
has a fine voice, excellent manners, is very fluent, and has 
his arguments at his finger-ends. I can not think that 
I have any reason to fear him whenever I can meet with 
him in person. But this, just now, is the difficulty. The 
difference between a young lawyer in little practice, and 
one with his hands full, is something important. Should I 
not join you on the 6th, you had better go on to the Green. 
He will be there by that time. I will meet you there cer- 
tainly by the 8th ; though I shall make an effort to take the 
stump on the 7th, if I can. Should I fail, however, as is 
possible, you must be there to take it for me, and maintain 
it till I come. Barnabas and myself will then relieve you, 
and finish the game. 

“ Why do we not hear from you ? Whisker-Ben said at 
Club last night that he had heard some rumor that you 
were married or about to be married. We take it for 
granted, however, that the invention is his own. Barnabas 
flatly denied it, and even the pope (his nose, by the way, is 
thoroughly recovered) expressed his opinion that you were 
‘ no such ass.’ Of course, he suffered neither his own, nor 
my wife, to hear this complimentary opinion. One thing, 
however, was agreed upon among us, viz. : that you were 
just the man, not only to do a foolish thing, but an impol- 
itic one ; and a vote was carried, nem. con.^ in which it was 
resolved to inform you that, in ‘ the opinion of this club, 
marriage is a valuable consideration.’ A word to the wise, 
etc. You know the proverb. Barnabas spoke to this sub- 
ject. Whisker-Ben, too, was quite eloquent. ‘What,’ 


166 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


said he, ‘ are the moral possessions of a woman ? I answer, 
bank-notes, bonds, sound stocks, and other choses in action. 
Her physical possessions, I count to be lands and negroes, 
beauty, a good voice, &c. His distinction was recognised 
as the true one by everybody but Zauerkraout, who now 
wears the red hat in place of Finnikin. He thinks that 
negroes should be counted among the moral possessions, 
or, at least, as of a mixed character, moral and physical. 
I will not trouble you with more of the debate than the 
summary. An inquiry was made into your qualities, and 
the chances before you, and you were then rated, and found 
to be worth seventy-five thousand dollars, the interest of 
which, at five per cent., being five thousand dollars, it was 
resolved that you be counselled not to marry any woman 
whose income is less. A certificate of so much stock in the 
club will be despatched you to assist in any future opera- 
tions ; as a friend to yourself, not less than to the club, let 
me exhort you to give heed to its counsels. ‘ Marriage is 
a valuable consideration.” Marry no woman whose in- 
come is not quite as good as your own.' As a lawyer, in 
tolerable practice, you may fairly estimate your capital at 
thirty or forty thousand dollars. If you have a pretty 
woman near you, before you look at her again, see what 
she’s worth ; and lose sight of her as soon as you can, un- 
less she brings in a capital to the concern, equal to your 
own. Be as little of a boy in these matters as possible. In 
no other, I think, are you likely to be a boy ! Adieu ! If 
you do not see me on the 6th, start for the Green by the 
7th. I shall surely be there by the 8th. Barnabas sends 
his blessing, nor does the pope withhold his. He evidently 
thinks less unfavorably of you, since his nose has been pro- 
nounced out of danger. “ Lovingly yours, 

“ J. 0 . Beauchampe, Esq.” “ W. P. Sharpe. 

The wife read the letter slowly. Its contents struck her 
strangely. It had something in its tone like that of one 


THE HONEYMOON. 


167 


whom she had been accustomed to hear. The contents of 
it were nothing. The meaning was obvious enough. Of 
the parties she knew nothing. But there was the sentiment 
of the writer, which, like the key-note in music, pervaded 
he performance — not necessarily a part of its material, yet 
giving a character of its own to the whole. That key-note 
was not an elevated one. She looked up. Her husband 
had been observing her countenance. A slight suffusion 
flushed her cheek as her eyes met his. 

“ Who is Mr. W. P. Sharpe,’’ said she, “ who counsels 
so boldly, and I may add so selfishly ?” 

“He is the gentleman with whom I studied law — one 
of our best lawyers, a great politician and very distinguished 
man. He is now up for the assembly, and, as you see, 
thinks that I can promote his election by my eloquence. 
What think you, Anna ?” 

“ I think you have eloquence, Beauchampe — I should 
think you would become a very popular speaker. You have 
boldness, which is one great essential. You have a lively 
imagination and free command of language, and your gen- 
eral enthusiasm would at least make you a very earnest 
advocate. There should be something in the cause — the 
occasion — no doubt, and ” 

She stopped. 

“ Gro on,” said he — “what would you say ?” 

“ That I should doubt very much whether the occasion 
Aere,” lifting up the letter — “ would be sufficient to stimu- 
late you to do justice to yourself.” 

The youth looked grave. She noticed the expression, 
and with more solicitude than usual, continued : — 

“ I think I know you, Beauchampe. It is no disparage- 
ment to you to say I something wonder how such people as 
are here self-described should have been associates of yours.” 

“ Strictly speaking they were not,” he replied, with 
something of a blush upon his face. “ I know but very lit- 
tle of them. But you are to understand that there is exag- 


168 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


geration — which is perhaps the only idea of fun that our 
people seem to have — in the design and objects of this 
club. It is a lawyers’ society, and Colonel Sharpe insisted, 
the day that I graduated, that I must become a member. 
I attached no importance to the matter either one way or 
the other, and readily consented. I confess to you, Anna, 
that what I beheld, the only night when I did attend their 
orgies, made me resolve, even before seeing you, to forswear 
the fraternity. We do not sympathize, as you may imagine. 
But no more, I fancy, does the writer of this letter sympa- 
thize with them. Colonel Sharpe is willing to relax a little 
from serious labors, and he takes this mode as being just as 
good as any other. These people are scarcely more than 
creatures for his amusement.” 

The wife looked grave but said no more, and Beau- 
champe sat down to write an answer. This answer as may 
be supposed, confirmed the story of Whisker-Ben, legiti- 
mated all the apprehensions of the club, and assured the 
writer of the letter that his counsels of “ moral prudence” 
had come too late. He had not only wedded, but wedded 
without any reference to the possessions, such as had been 
described as moral, at least by the philosophers of the fra- 
ternity. 

“ My wife,” said the letter of the writer — “ has beauty 
and youth, and intellect — beauty beyond comparison — and 
a grace and spirit about her genius that seem to me equally 
so. Beyond these, and her noble heart, I am not sure that 
she has any possessions. I believe she is poor ; but really, 
until you suggested the topic, I never once thought of it. 
To me, I assure you, however heretical the confession may 
seem, I care not a straw for fortune. Indeed, I shall bo 
the better pleased to discover that my wife brings me noth- 
ing but herself.” 

The letter closed with the assurance of the writer that 
he should punctually attend at the gathering, and do his 
best to maintain the cause and combat of his friend. 


THE HONEYMOON. 


169 


Is this Colonel Sharpe so very much your friend, Beau- 
champe demanded his wife when he had read to her a 
portion of his letter. 

“He has been friendly — has treated me with attention 
as his pupil — has not spared his compliments, and is what 
is called a fine gentleman. I can not say that he is a char- 
acter whom I unreservedly admire. He is a man of loose 
principles — lacks faith — is pleased in showing his skepti- 
cism on subjects which would better justify veneration ; 
and, of the higher sort of friendships which implies a loy- 
alty almost akin to devotion, he is utterly incapable. Seek- 
ing this loyalty in my friend, I should not seek him. But 
for ordinary uses — for social purposes — as a good com- 
panion, an intelligent authority, Colonel Sharpe would al- 
ways be desirable. You will like him, I think. He is well 
read, very fluent, and though he does not believe in the 
ideals of the heart and fancy, he reads poetry as if he wrote 
it. You, who do write it, Anna, will think better of him 
when you hear him read it.’’ 

“ Do you know his wife, Beauchampe ?” 

“No — strange to say, I do not. I have seen her; she 
is pretty, but it is said they do not live happily together.” 

“How many stories there are of people who do not 
live happily together ; and if true, what a strange thing it 
is, that such should be the case. Yet, no doubt, they 
fancied, at the first, that they loved one another ; unless, 
Beauchampe, they were counselled by some such club as 
yours. If so, there could be no difficulty in understanding 
it all.” 

“But with those, Anna, who reject the advice of the 
club ?” 

“ Can it ever be so with them, Beauchampe ? I think 
not. It seems to me as if I should never be satisfied to 
change what is for what might be. Are you not content, 
Beauchampe ?” 

“ Am I not ? Believe me it makes my heart tremble to 
8 


170 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


think of the brief separation which this election business 
calls for. Sharpe little knows what a sacrifice I make to 
serve him.” 

“ And if I read this letter of his aright, he would laugh 
you to scorn for the confession.” 

“ No ! that he should not.” 

“ You would not see it, Beauchampe. You are perhaps 
too necessary to this man. But who is Mr. Calvert — is 
he an elderly man? — I once knew a very worthy old gen- 
tleman of that name. He too had been a lawyer and was 
a man of talents.” 

“ This is a very young man, I believe ; not much older 
than myself. He does not practise in our counties and I 
have never seen him. Judge Tompkins brings him for- 
ward. You see what Sharpe says is said of him. It will 
do me no discredit to grapple with him, even should he 
fling me.” 

“ Somehow, I think well of him already,” said the wife. 
“ I would you were with him^ Beauchampe, rather tlian 
against him. Somehow, I do not incline to this Colonel 
Sharpe. I wish you were not his ally.” 

“ What a prejudice ! But you will think better of the 
colonel when you see him. I shall probably bring him 
home with me !” 

The wife said nothing more, but there was a secret feel- 
ing at her heart that rendered this assurance an irksome 
one. Somehow, she wished that Beauchampe might not 
bring this person to his house. Her impression — which 
was certainly derived from his letter — was an unfavorable 
one. She fancied, after awhile, that her objection was only 
the natural reluctance to see strangers, of one who had so 
long secluded herself from the sight of all ; and thus she 
rested, until Beauchampe was about to take his departure 
to attend the gathering at Bowling-Green, and then the 
same feeling found utterance again. 

“ Do not bring home any friends, Beauchampe. I am 


THE HONEYMOON. 


171 


not fit, not willing to see them. Remember how long I 
have been shut in from the world. Force me not into it. 
Now we have security, husband — I dread change of any 
kind as if it were death. Strange faces will only give me 
pain. Do not bring any 

“ What ! not Colonel Sharpe ! I care to bring no other. 
I could scarcely get off from bringing him. At least I must 
ask him, Anna ; and, I confess to you, I shall not be dis- 
pleased if he does decline. The probability is that he will 
for his hands are full.” 

She turned in from the gate, saying nothing further on 
this subject, but feeling an internal hope, which she could 
not repress, that this would be the case. Nay, somehow, 
she felt as if she would prefer that Beauchampe would bring 
any other friend than this. 

How prescient is the soul that loves and fears ! Talk of 
your mesmerism as you will, there are some divine instincts 
in our nature which are as apprehensive of the coming 
event, as if they were already a part of it. It is as if they 
see the lightning-flash which informs the event, long before 
the thunder-peal which, like the voice of fame, comes slowly 
to declare that all is over. 


172 


BEAUCHAMPB. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

STUMP PATRIOTS. 

Were we at the beginning of our journey, instead of 
being so far advanced on our way, it would be a pleasant 
mode of wasting an hour, to descant on the shows and 
practices of a popular gathering hi our forest country. The 
picture is a strange, if not a startling one. Its more prom- 
inent aspects must, however, be imagined by the reader. 
We have now no time for mere description. The more de- 
cidedly narrative parts of our story are finished. As we 
tend to the denouement, the action necessarily becomes 
more rapid and more dramatic. The supernumeraries cease 
to thrust in their lantherii-long images upon us. This is no 
place for meditative philosophers ; and none are suffered to 
appear except those who do and suffer^ with the few subor- 
dinates which the exigency of the case demands, for dispo- 
sing the draperies decently, and letting down the curtain. 

Were it otherwise — were not this disposition of the parts 
and parties inevitable — it would afford us pleasure to give 
a earner Orohscur a representation of the figures, coming and 
going, who mingle and dance around the great political 
caldron during the canvass of a closely-contested election : 

“ Black spirits and white, 

Red spirits and gray ; 

Mingle, mingle, mingle. 

You that mingle may.’ 

And various indeed was the assortment of spirits that 
assembled to hear liquid argument — and drink it too — on 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


173 


the present occasion. Fancy the crowd, the commotion, 
the sharp jest and the wild laughter, most accommodating 
of all possible readers, and spare us the necessity of dila- 
ting upon it. We will serve you some such scene, with 
all its lights and shadows, on some other more fitting oc 
casion. 

Something, however, is to be shown. You are to sup 
pose a crowd of several hundred persons, shrewd, sensible 
people enough, after their fashion — rough-handed men of 
the woods, good at the plough and wagon — masters of the 
axe, tree-quellers and hog-killers — a stout race, rugged it 
may be, but not always rude — hospitable, free-handed — 
ignorant of delicacies, but born with a strong conviction 
that much is to be known, much acquired — that they are 
the born inheritors of much — rights, privileges, liberties — 
sacred possessions which require looking after, and are not 
to be intrusted to every hand. Often deceived, they are 
necessarily jealous on this subject ; and, growing a little 
wiser with every political loss, they come to their patrimony 
with an hourly-increasing knowledge of its value and its 
peculiar characteristics. Not much learning have they, 
but, in lieu of it, they can tell “ hawk from handsaw’’ in 
all stages of the wind ; which is a wisdom that your learned 
man is not often master of. You may cheat them once, 
nay, twice, or thrice, for they are frank and confiding ; but 
the same man can not often cheat them ; and one thing is 
certain — that they can extract the uses from a politician, 
and then fling him away, as sagaciously as the urchin who 
deals in like manner with the orange-sack which he has 
sucked. 

Talk of politicians ruling the American people ! Lord 
love you ! where do you find these great rulers after five 
years ? Sucked, squeezed, thrown by, an atom in the dung- 
heap ! Precious few of these men of popular dimensions 
survive their own clamor. Even while they shout upon 
their petty eminences, the world has hurried on and left 


174 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


them ; and there they stand, open-mouthed and wondering ! 
Waking at length, they ask, like the shipwrecked traveller 
on the shore : “ Where am I ? where is my people My 
people! — ha! ha! ha! There is something worse than 
mockery in that shout. It is my people that speaks, but 
the voice is changed. It is now thy people. The sceptre 
has departed. Ephraim is no longer an idol among them. 
They have other gods ; and the late exalted politician, 
freezing on his narrow eminence, grows dumb for ever — 
stiff, stone-eyed — like the sphinx, brooding in her sinking 
sands, saying, as it were, “ Ask me nothing of what I was, 
for now see you not that I am nothing 

Precious little of such a fate dreams he, the high-cheeked, 
sunburnt orator, that now rallies the stout peasantry at 
Bowling-Green. He thinks not so much of perpetual fame 
as of perpetual office. He has a faith in office which shall 
last him much longer than that which he professes to have 
in the people. He hath not so much faith in them as in 
their gifts. But he fancies not — not he — that the shouts 
which now respond to his utterance shall ever refuse re- 
sponse to his summons. He assumes a saving exception 
in his own case, which shall make him sure in the very 
places where his predecessors failed. He hath an unctuous 
way with him which makes his faith confident; and his 
voice thunders, and his eye lightens ; and he rains precious 
drops among them, which might be eloquence, if it were 
not balderdash ! 

Who is this man ?” quoth our young hero Beauchampe, 
as he listened to the muddy torrent, which, like some turbid 
river, having overflowed its banks, comes down, rending and 
raging, a thick flood of slime and foam, bringing along with 
it the refuse of nauseous places, and low flats, and swampy 
bottoms, and offal-stalls ! 

The youth was bewildered. The eloquent man was so 

* Years after this was published, even Webster was heard to ask, in this 
very condition of bewilderment, " Where am 1 to go V* 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


176 


sure of his ground and auditors — seemed so confident in 
his strength — so little like a doubting giant — that it was 
long before Beauchampe could discover that he was a mere 
wind-bag, a bloated vessel of impure air, that, becoming 
fixed air through a natural process, at length explodes and 
breaks forth with a violence duly proportioned to its noi- 
someness. 

“ This can not be the man Calvert !” soliloquized our hero. 
It was not. But, when the wind-bag was exhausted — 
which, by a merciful Providence, was at length the case — 
then arose another speaker ; and then did Beauchampe note 
the vast difference, even before the latter spoke, which was 
at once evident between the two. 

“ This must be he !” he murmured to himself. 

He was not mistaken. The crowd was hushed. The 
stillness, after those clamors which preceded it, was awful ; 
but was it not encouraging ? No such stillness had accom- 
panied the torrent-rushing of those beldame ideas and bull- 
dog words which had come from the previous speaker. 
Here was attention — curiosity — the natural curiosity of an 
audience about to listen to a new speaker, and already 
favorably impressed by his manner and appearance. 

Both were pleasing and impressive. In person he was 
tall and well made — his features denoted one still in the 
green and gristle of his youth — not more than twenty-five 
summers had darkened into brown the light flaxen hair 
upon his forehead. His eyes were bright and clear, but 
there was a grave sweetness, or rather a sweet, mild gravity 
in his face, which seemed the effect of some severe disap- 
pointment or sorrow. 

This, without impairing youth, had imparted dignity. 
His manner was unostentatious and natural, but very grace- 
ful. He bowed when he first rose before the assembly,^ 
then, for a few moments, remained silent, while his eye 
seemed to explore the whole of that moral circuit which 
his thoughts were to penetrate. 


1Y6 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


He began, and Beauchampe was now all attention. His 
voice was at first very low, but very clear and distinct. 
His exordium consisted of some general principles which 
the subjects he proposed to discuss were intended to illus- 
trate, to confirm, and at the same time to receive their own 
illustration, by the application of the same maxims. 

In all this there was an ease of utferance, a familiarity 
with all the forms of analysis, a readiness in moral con- 
jecture, a freedom of comparison, a promptness of sugges- 
tion, which betrayed a mind not only excellent by nature, 
but admirably drilled by the severest exercise of will 
and art. 

We do not care to note his arguments, or the particular 
subjects which they were intended to elucidate. These 
were purely local in their character, and were nowise re- 
markable, excepting as, in their employment, the speaker 
showed himself everywhere capable of rising to the height 
of those principles by which the subject was governed. This 
habit of mind enabled him to simplify his topic to the un- 
derstanding of his audience ; to disentangle the mysteries 
which the dull brains and rabid tongue of the previous 
speaker had involved in a seemingly inextricable mass ; and 
to unveil, feature by feature, the perfect image of that lead- 
ing idea which he had set out to establish. 

In showing that Mr. Calvert argued his case, it is not to 
be understood, however, that he was merely argumentative. 
The main points of difficulty discussed, he rose, as he pro- 
ceeded, into occasional flights of eloquence, which told with 
the more effect, as they were made purely subordinate to 
the business of his speech. Beauchampe discovered, with 
wonder and admiration, the happy art which had so ar- 
ranged it; and from wonder and admiration he sank to 
apprehension, when, considering the equal skill of the de- 
bater and the beauty of his declamation, he all at once rec- 
ollected, toward the close, that it was allotted to him to 
take up the cudgels and maintain the conflict for his friend. 


. STUMP PATRIOTS. 


177 


But this was not a moment to feel fear. Beauchampe 
was a man of courage. His talent was active, his mood 
fiery, his imagination very prompt and energetic. He, too, 
was meant to be an orator ; but he had gone through no 
such school of preparation as that of the man whom he was 
to answer. But this did not discourage him. If he lacked 
the exquisite finish of manner, and the logical relation of 
part with part, which distinguished the address of his oppo- 
nent, he had an irresistible impulse of expression. Easily 
excited himself, he found little diflBculty in exciting those 
whom he addressed. If Calvert was the noble steed of the 
middle ages, caparisoned in chain-armor, and practised to 
wheel, and bound, and rear, and recoil, as the necessities 
of the fight required — then was Beauchampe the light Ara- 
bian courser, who, if he may not combat on equal terms 
with his opponent, at least, by his agility and unremitting 
attack, keeps him busy at all points in the work of defence. 
If he gives himself no repose, he leaves his enemy none. 
Now here, now there, with the rapidity of lightning, he 
fatigues his heavily-armed foe by the frequency of his evo- 
lutions — he himself being less encumbered by weight and 
armor, and being at the same time more easily refreshed 
for a renewal of the fight. 

Such was the nature of their combat which lasted, at in- 
tervals, throughout the day. Beauchampe had made liis 
debut with considerable eclat. His heart was bounding 
with the excitement of the conflict. The friends of Colonel 
Sharpe were in ecstacies. They had been dashed by the 
superior eloquence of the new assailant. They feared and 
felt the impression which Calvert had made ; and, expect- 
ing nothing from so young a beginner as Beauchampe, they 
naturally exaggerated the character of his speech, when 
they found it so far to exceed their expectations. The 
compliments which he received were not confined to the 
friends of Colonel Sharpe. The opposition confessed his 
excellence, and Calvert himself was the first, when it was 

8 * 


178 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


over, to come forward, make the acquaintance, and offer his 
congratulations. 

Colonel Sharpe arrived that night. As soon as this fact 
was ascertained, Beauchampe prepared to return home. 
Sharpe had brought with him two friends, both lawyers, 
men of some parts, who rendered any further assistance 
from our young husband unnecessary. The resolution of 
the new bridegroom so soon to leave the field, provoked 
the merriment of the veterans. 

“ And so you are really married V And what sort of a 
wife have you got, Beauchampe ?” demanded Sharpe. 

“ You can readily guess,’’ said Barnabas, “when you find 
him so eager to get home without waiting to see the end 
of the business here.” 

“ Is she young and handsome, Beauchampe ?” 

“ And what are her moral possessions, as defined by 
Whisker-Ben ?” was the demand of Barnabas. 

The tone of these remarks, and inquiries was excessively 
annoying to Beauchampe. There was something like gross 
irreverence in it. It seemed as if his sensibilities suffered 
a stab with every syllable which he was called upon to 
answer. Besides, it was only when examined in reference 
to the age, appearance and name of his wife, that he be- 
came vividly impressed with the painful consciousness of 
what must be concealed in her history. The burning blush 
on his cheeks, when he replied to his companions, only 
served to subject his unnecessary modesty to the usual sar- 
casms which are common in such cases. 

“ And you will go ?” said Sharpe. 

“ I promised my wife to return as soon as you came, and 
she will expect me.” 

“ I must see that wife of yours who has so much power 
over you. Is she so very handsome, Beauchampe ?” 

“ I think so.” 

“ And what did you say was her name before marriage ?” 
was the further inquiry. 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


179 


He was answered, though with some hesitation. 

“ Cooke, Cooke ! You say in your letter that she’s won- 
derfully smart ! But, Barnabas, we must judge for our- 
selves, both the beauty and the wit. Hey, boy ! are we 
not a committee on that subject ?” 

“ To be sure we are — for that matter, Beauchampe could 
only marry with our consent. He will have to be very 
civil in showing us the lady, to persuade us to sanction this 
premature affair.” 

“ Do you hear, Beauchampe ?” 

“ I do not fear. When you have seen her, the consent 
will not be withheld, I’m sure.” 

“ You believe in your princess, then ?” 

“ Fervently !” 

“ You are very young, Beauchampe — very young ! But 
we were all young, Barnabas, and have paid the penalties 
of youth. An age of unbelief for a youth of faith. Thirty 
years of skepticism for some three months’ intoxication. 
But how soon that gristle of credulity hardens into callous- 
ness ! How long do you give Beauchampe before he gains 
his freedom ?” 

“ That,” said Barnabas, “ will depend very much on 
how much he sees of wife, children, and friends. If he 
were now to set off alone and take a voyage to Canton, the 
probability is he would be quite as much a victim until he 
got back. Three weeks at home would probably give him 
a more decided taste for the Canton voyage, and he would 
take a second, and stay abroad longer. Beyond that there 
is no need to look ; the story always ends in the same way. 
I never knew a tale which had so little variety.” 

There was more of this dialogue which we do not care to 
record. The moral atmosphere was not grateful to the 
tastes of the young man. Sharpe saw that, and changed 
the subject. 

“ You have made good fight to-day — so they tell me. I 
knew you would. But you should keep it up. Take my 


180 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


word, another day here would be the making of you. One 
speech proves nothing if it produces no more.” 

“ I shall only be in the way,” said Beauchampe. “ You 
have Barnabas and Mercer.” 

“ Good men and true, but the more the merrier. How 
know I whom the opposition will bring into the field ?” 

“ They will scarcely get one superior to Calvert.” 

“ So, you like him then ?” 

“ I do — very much. He will give you a hard fight.” 

“ Will he, then ?” said Colonel Sharpe, with some ap- 
pearance of pique; ‘‘well! we shall see — Heaven send 
the hour as soon as may be.” 

“ Be wary,” said Beauchampe, “ for I assure you he is a 
perfect master of his weapon. I have seldom even fancied 
a more adroit or able speaker.” 

“ Do 1 not tell you you are young, Beauchampe ?” 

“ Young or old, take my counsel as a matter of prudence, 
and be wary. He will certainly prove to you the necessity 
of looking through your armory.” 

“ By my faith but I should like to see this champion who 
has so intoxicated you. You have made me curious, and 
I must see him to-night. Where does he lodge ?” 

“ At the Red Heifer.” 

“ Shall we go to him, or send for him ? What say you, 
Barnabas ?” 

“ Oh, go to him, be sure. It will have a good effect. It 
will show as if you were not proud.” 

“ And did not fear him ! Come, Beauchampe, if you will 
not stay and do. battle for us any longer, pen a billet of in- 
troduction to this famous orator. Say to him, that your 
friends. Messieurs Sharpe and Barnabas, of whom you may 
Jay the prettiest things with safety, will come over this 
evening to test the hospitality of the Red Heifer. Be sure 
to state that it is your new wife that hurries you off, or the 
conceited fellow may fancy that he has made you sick with 
his drubbing. Ho! Sutton — landlord! what ho! there!” 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


181 


The person summoned made his appearance. 

Ha ! Sutton ! How are you, my old boy ? — haven’t seen 
you since the last flood — and what’s to be done down here ? 
What are you going to do ? Is it court or country party 
here — Tompkins or Desha ?” 

“ Well, kurnel, there’s no telling to a certainty, till the 
votes is in the box and counted; but I reckon all goes 
right, jist now, as you’d like to find it.” 

“Very good — and you think Beauchampe did well to- 
day ?” 

“ Mighty onexpected well. He’ll be a screamer yet, I 
tell you.” 

“ There’s a promise of fame for you, Beauchampe, which 
ought to make you stay a day longer. Think now of be- 
coming a screamer ! You said a screamer, Sutton, old fel- 
low, didn’t you ?” 

“ Screamer’s the word, kurnel ; and ’twon’t be much 
wanting to make him one. He did talk the boldest now, 
T tell you, considerin’ what he had to work ag’in.” 

“ What ! is this Mr. Calvert a screamer too ?” 

“ Raal grit, kurnel — no mistake. Talks like a book.” 

“ And so, I suppose,” said Sharpe, in the manner of a 
man who knows his strength and expects it to be acknowl- 
edged, “ and so I suppose you look for me to come out in 
all my strength ? You will require me to talk like two 
books ?” 

“ Jist so, kurnel, the people’s a-looking for it ; and it’s 
an even bet with some, that you can’t do better than this 
strange chap, Calvert.” 

But there are enough to take up such a bet ? Are there 
not, old fellow ?” 

“ W ell, I reckon there are ; but you know how a nag has 
to work when the odds arc even.” 

“Ay, ay! We must see this fellow, that’s clear* We 
must measure his height, breadth, and strength, beforehand. 


182 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


No harm to look at any one’s enemy the night before fight- 
ing him, Sutton, is there ?” 

“ None in natur’, kurnel. It’s a sort o’ right one has to 
feel the heft of the chap that wants to fling him.” 

“Even so, old boy — so get us pen, ink, and paper, 
here, while Beauchampe writes him a sort of friendly chal- 
lenge. I say, Sutton, the Red Heifer is against us, is 
she ?” 

“ I reckon it’s the Red Heifer’s husband, kurnel,” said 
the landlord, as he placed the writing materials. “ If ’twas 
the Red Heifer herself, I’m thinking the vote would be clear 
t’other way.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! you wicked dog !” exclaimed Sharpe, with a 
chuckle of perfect self-complacence ; “I see you do not 
easily forget old times.” 

“No, no, kurnel ! — a good recollection of old times is a 
sort of Christian duty : it sort o’ keeps a man in memory 
of friends and inimies.” 

“ But the Red Heifer was neither friend nor enemy of 
yours, Sutton ?” 

No, kurnel, but the Heifer’s husband had a notion that 
’tworn’t any fault of mine that she worn’t.” 

“ Ah, you sad dog !” said Sharpe, flatteringly. 

“A leetle like my customers, kurnel,” responded the 
landlord, with a knowing leer. 

“ I would I could see her, though for a minute only.’ 

“ That’s pretty onpossible. He’s strict enough upon her 
now-a-days ; never lets her out of sight, and watches every 
eye that looks to her part of the house. He’d be mighty 
suspicious of you^ if you went there.” 

“ But he has no cause, Sutton !” 

“ Well, you say so, kurnel, and I’m not the man to say 
otherwise ; but he thinks very different, I can tell you. 
He ain’t the man to show his teeth ; but, mark me, his eye 
won’t leave you from the time you come, to the time you 
quit.” 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


183 


“ We’ll note him, Sutton. Ready, Beauchampe ?” 

The youth answered by handing the note to the landlord, 
by whom it was instantly despatched according to its direc- 
tion. A few moments only had elapsed, when an answer 
was received, acknowledging the compliment, and request- 
ing to see the friends of Mr. Beauchampe at their earliest 
leisure. 

“ This is well,” said Sharpe. “ I confess my impatience 
to behold this formidable antagonist. Bestir yourself, Bar- 
nabas, with that toddy, over which you seem to have been 
saying the devil’s prayers for the last half-hour ! Be sure 
and bring a hatful of your cigars along with you. The 
Red Heifer, I suspect, will yield us nothing half so good. 
Ho, Beauchampe ! are you sleeping ?” 

A slap on the shoulder aroused Beauchampe from some- 
thing like a waking dream, and he started to his feet with 
a bewildered look. He had been thinking of his wife, and 
of the cruel portions of her strange history — to which, as 
by an inevitable impulse, the equivocal dialogue between 
Sharpe and the landlord seemed to carry him back. 

“Dreaming of your wife, no doubt! Ha! ha! — Beau- 
champe, how long will you be a boy ?” 

Why did these words annoy Beauchampe ? Was there 
anything sinister in their signification ? Why did those 
tones of his friend’s voice send a shudder through the 
youth’s veins ? Had he also his presentiments ? We shall 
see. At all events, his dream, whatever may have been its 
character, was thoroughly broken. He turned to the land 
lord, and ordered his horse to be got instantly. 

“ You will go, then ?” said Sharpe. 

“Yes ; you do not need me any longer.” 

“ You are resolved, then, not to be a screamer ! What 
a perverse nature ! Here is Fame, singing like the ducks 
of Mrs. Bond, ‘ Come and catch me’ — and d — 1 a bit he 
stirs for all their invitation ! But he’s young, Barnabas, 
and has a young wife not five weeks old. We must be 


184 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


indulgent, Barnabas. We must not be too strict in our 
examination.” 

“We were young ourselves once,” said Barnabas, kindly 
looking to Beauchampe. 

“ But do not be precipitate, old fellow. Though merci- 
fully inclined, it must be real beauty, and genuine wit, 
that shall save our brother. Our certificate will depend 
on that. Beauchampe, look to see us to dinner day after 
to-morrow.” 

“I shall expect yoii,” said Beauchampe, faintly, as, bid- 
ding them farewell, he left the room. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor fellow !” said Sharpe. “ His treas- 
ures make him sad. He is just now as anxious and appre- 
hensive as an old miser of seventy.” 

“Egad, he little dreams, just now, how valuable the 
club will be to him a few months hence,” said Barna- 
bas. 

“ Everything to him. Let us drink ‘ The club,’ Barna- 
bas.” And they filled, and bowed to each other, hob-Or 
noh. 

“ The club !” 

“ The pope .'” 

“ And the pope’s wife !” 

“ No go, that !” said Sharpe. “ Antiques are masculine 
only. She’s dead to us ; she’s too old.” 

“ What say you to this wife of Beauchampe, then ?” 

“We won’t drink her until we see her ; though I rather 
suspect she must be pretty, for he has an eye in his head. 

But what a d d fool to leap so hurriedly, without once 

looking after the consideration ! That was a woful error ! 
— only to be excused by her superexcellence. We shall 
see in season ; though, curse me, if I do not fancy he’d 
rather see the devil than either of us ! He’s jealous al- 
ready. Hid you observe how faintly he said, ‘ Good-night’ 
— and how coldly he gave his invitation ? But we’ll like 
his wife the better for it, Barnabas. ‘ When the hus- 


STimP PATRIOTS. 


185 


band’s jealous, the wife’s fair game.’ Thus saith the 
proverb.” 

“And a wholesome one! But — did we drink? I’m 
_ not sure that we have not forgotten it.” 

And the speaker explored the bottom of the pitcher, and 
knew not exactly which had deceived him, his memory or 
his palate. 


186 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


CHAPTER XVIi. 

THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 

In one of the apartments of the Red Heifer, wo per- 
sons were sitting about this time. One of these was the 
orator whose successes that day had been the theme of 
every tongue. The other was a man well stricken in 
years, of commanding form, and venerable and intellec- 
tual aspect. His hair was long and white, while his 
cheeks were yet smooth and even rosy, as if they spoke 
for a well-satisfied conscience and gentle heart in their 
proprietor. 

The eyes of the old man were settled upon the young 
one. There was a paternal exultation in their glance, 
which sufficiently declared the interest which he felt in 
the fortunes and triumphs of his companion. The eyes 
of the youth were fixed with something of inquiry upon 
the note of Beauchampe, which he still turned with his 
fingers. There was something of doubt and misgiving in 
the expression of his face ; which his companion noted, to 
ask : — 

“ Is there nothing in that note, William, besides what 
you have read ? It seems to disturb you.” 

“ Nothing, sir ; nor can I say that it disturbs me exactly. 
Perhaps every young beginner feels the same disquieting 
sort of excitement when he is about to meet his antagonist 
for the first time. You are aware, sir, that this gentleman. 
Colonel Sharpe, is the Coryphaeus of the opposition. Ho 


THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 


187 


is the right-hand man of Desha, and has the reputation of 
being one of the ablest lawyers and most popular orators 
in the state.” 

“ You need not fear him, my son,” said the elder ; “ I 
am now sure of your strength. You will not fail — you 
can not. You have your mind at the control of your will ; 
and it needs only that you should go and be sure of oppo- 
sition. Had that power but been mine — but it is useless 
now ! I enjoy my own hoped-for triumphs in the certain- 
ties of yours.” 

So far, sir, as the will enables us to prove what we 
are, and have in us, so far I think I may rely upon myself. 
But the mere will to perform is not always — perhaps not 
often — the power. This man Sharpe brings into the field 
more than ordinary talents. Hitherto, with the exception 
of this young man Beauchampe, all my opponents have 
been very feeble men — mere dealers in rhodomontade of 
a very commonplace sort. Beauchampe, who is said to 
have been a pupil of Colonel Sharpe, was merely put for- 
ward to-day to speak against time. This fact alone shows 
the moderate estimate which they put upon his abilities : 
and yet what a surprising effect his speech produced — 
what excitement, what enthusiasm ! Besides, it was evi 
dently unpremeditated ; for it was, throughout, an answer 
to mine.” 

“ But it was no answer : it was mere declamation.” 

“ So it was, sir ; but it was declamation that sounded 
very inucli»like argument, and had the effect of argument. 
It is no small proof of a speaker’s ability, when he can 
enter without premeditation upon a subject — a subject, too, 
which is decidedly against him — and so discuss it — so 
suppress the unfavorable and so emphasize the favorable 
parts of his cause — as to produce such an impression. 
Now, if this be the pupil of Colonel Sharpe, and so little 
esteemed as to be used simply to gain time, what have we 
to expect, what to fear, from the presence of the master ?” 


188 


BBAUCHAMPE. 


“ Fear nothing, William ! nay, whatever you may say 
here, in cool deliberate moments, you can not fear when 
you are there ! That I know. When you stand before the 
people, and every voice is hushed in expectation, a differ- 
ent spirit takes possession of your bosom. Nothing then 
can daunt you. I have seen the proofs too often of what I 
say ; and I now tell you that it is in your power to handle 
this Colonel Sharpe with quite as much ease and success 
as you have handled all the rest. Do not brood upon it 
with such a mind, my son — do not encourage these doubts. 
To be an orator you must no more be liable to fear than a 
soldier going into battle.” 

“ Somehow, sir, there are certain names which disturb 
me — I have met with men whose looks had the same effect. 
They seem to exercise the power of a spell upon my mind 
and frame.” 

“ But you burst from it ?” 

“Yes, but with great effort.” 

“ It matters nothing. The difficulty is easily accounted 
for, as well as the spell by which you were bound. That 
spell is in your own ardency of imagination. Persons of 
your temperament, for ever on the leap, are for ever liable 
to recoil. Have you never advanced impetuously to grasp 
the hand of one who has been named to you, and then al- 
most shrunk away from his grasp, as soon as you have be- 
held his face ? He was a phlegmatic, perhaps ; and your 
warm nature recoiled with a feeling of natural antipathy 
from the repelling coldness of his. The man ^ho pours 
forth his feelings under enthusiastic impulses is particularly 
liable to this frigid influence. A deliberate matter-of-fact 
question, at such a moment — the simplification into baldness 
of the subject of his own inquiry, by the lips of a cynic — 
will quench his ardor, and make him shrink within his shell, 
as a spirit of good may be supposed to recoil from the ap- 
proach of a spirit of evil. Now, you have just enough of 
this enthusiasm to be sensible ordinarily to this influence. 


THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 


189 


You acknowledged it only on ordinary occasions, however. 
At first, I feared its general effect upon you. I dreaded 
lest it should enfeeble you ; but I soon discovered that you 
had a will, which, in the moment of necessity, could over- 
come it quite. As I said before, when you are once before 
the crowd, and they wait in silence for your utterance, you 
are wholly a man ! I have no fears for you, William — I 
believe in no spells — none, at least, which need to trouble 
you. I know that you have no reason to fear, and I know 
that you will not fear when the time comes. Let me pre- 
dict for you a more complete triumph to-morrow than any 
which has happened yet.” 

“ You overrate me, sir. All I shall endeavor to do will 
be to keep what ground I may have already won. I must 
not hope to make any new conquests in the teeth of so 
able a foe.” 

“That is enough. To maintain your conquests is the 
next thing to making them ; and is usually a conquest by 
itself. But you will do more — you can not help it. You 
have the argument with you, and that is half the battle. 
Nay, it is all the battle to a mind so enthusiastic as yours 
in the cause of truth. The truth confers a strange power 
upon its advocate. Nay, I believe it is from the truth alone 
that we gather the last best powers of eloquence. I believe 
in the realness of no eloquence unless it comes from the 
sincerity of the orator. To make me believe, the speaker 
must himself believe.” 

“ Or seem to do so.” 

“ I think I should detect the seeming. Nay, after a little 
while, the people themselves detect it, and the orator sinks 
accordingly. This is the fate of many of our men who 
begin popularly. With politics, for a profession^ no man 
can be honest or consistent long. He must soon trade on 
borrowed capital. He soon deals in assignats and false 
papers. He endorses the paper of other men, sooner than 
not issue / and in doing business at all hazards, he soon 


190 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


incurs the last — bankruptcy! Political bankruptcy is of 
all sorts the worst. There is some chance of regaining 
caste, where it is lost by dishonesty — but never where it 
follows from a blunder. The knave is certainly one thing, 
but the blunderer may be both. The fool and knave united 
are incorrigible. Such a combination is too monstrous for 
popular patience. And how many do we see of this de- 
scription. I do not think there is in any profession under 
the sun such numerous examples of this combination. Every 
day shows us persons who toil for power and place with 
principles sufficiently flexible to suit any condition of things ; 
and yet they fail, and expose themselves. This is the won- 
der — that, unfettered as they make themselves at the be- 
ginning, they should still become bondsmen, and so, con- 
vict ! They seem to lack only one faculty of the knave — 
and that the most necessary — art.’’ 

“ Their very rejection of law enslaves them. That is 
the reason. They set out in a chain, which increases with 
every movement — which seems momently to multiply its 
own links and hourly increase its weight. Falsehood is 
such a chain. You can not convict a true man, for the 
simple reason that his feet are unimpeded from the first. 
A step in error is a step backward, which requires two for- 
ward before you can regain what is lost. How few have 
the courage for this. It is so much easier to keep on — so 
difficult to turn! This chain — the heavy weight which 
error is for ever doomed to carry — produces a stiffness of 
the limbs — a monstrous awkwardness — an inflexibility, 
which exposes its burdens whenever it is checked, com- 
pelled to leap aside, or attempt any sudden change of move- 
ment. This was the great difficulty of this young man, 
Beauchampe, in the discussion to-day: he scarcely knew 
it himself, because, to a young man of ingenuity, the diffi- 
culties of the argument on the wrong side, are themselves 
provocations to error. By exercising ingenuity, they appeal 
flatteringly to one’s sense of talent ; and, in proportior as 


THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 


191 


he may succeed in plausibly relieving himself from these 
difficulties of the subject, in the same proportion will he 
gradually identify himself with the side he now espouses. 
His mind will gradually adopt the point of view to which 
its own subtleties conduct it ; and, in this way will it be- 
come fettered, possibly to the latest moment of his existence. 
There is nothing more important to the popular orator than 
to have Truth for his ally when he first takes the field. 
Success, under such auspices, will commend her to his love, 
and the bias, once established, his faith is perpetual.’’ 

“ True, William, but you would make this alliance acci- 
dental. It must be the result of choice to be worth any- 
thing. We must love Truth, and seek her, or she does not 
become our ally.” 

“ I wish it were possible to convince our young beginners 
everywhere, not only that Truth is the best ally, but the 
only one that, in the long run, can possibly conduct us to 
permanent success.” 

“ This is not so much the point, 1 think, as to enable 
them to detect the true from the false. Very few young 
men are able to do this before thirty. Hence the error of 
forcing them into public life before that period. You will 
seldom meet with a very young person who will deliber- 
ately choose the false in preference to the true, from a sel- 
fish motive. They are beguiled into error by those who 
are older. It is precisely in politics as in morals. The 
unsuspecting youth, through the management of some cold, 
cunning debauchee, into whose hands he falls, finds himself 
in the embrace of a harlot, at the very moment when he 
most dreams of beatific love. The inner nature, not yet 
practised to defend itself, becomes the prey of the outer ; 
and strong indeed must be native energies which can finally 
recover the lost ground, and expel the invader fron; his 
place of vantage.” 

“ The case is shown in that of this young man, Beau- 
champe. It is evidently a matter of no moment to him on 


192 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


which side he enlists himself just now. There is no truth 
involved in it, to his eyes. It is a game of skill carried 
on between two parties ; and his choice is determined sim- 
ply by that with which he has been familiar. He is used 
by Sharpe, who is an older man, and possessed of more ex- 
perience, to promote an end. He little dreams that, in 
doing so, he is incurring a moral obligation to maintain the 
same conflict through his whole career.’^ 


THE MEETING OP THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 193 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE MEETING OP THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 

At this stage of the conversation, the two companions 
were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a sly-looking 
little deformity of a man, the landlord of the Red Heifer, 
who, in somewhat stately accents, announced the approach 
of Colonel Sharpe and his friend Mr. Barnabas. The two 
gentlemen rose promptly, expressed their pleasure at the 
annunciation, and begged the landlord to introduce the 
visiters. 

In a few moments this was done, though it was found 
that they were not the only guests. They were followed 
closely by a group of ten or a dozen substantial yeomen of 
the neighborhood — persons who never dreamed, in the un- 
sophisticated region of our story, that they were guilty of 
any trespass upon social laws in thus pressing uninvited 
into a gentleman’s private apartments. Our simple repub- 
licans supposed that, because they had a motive, they had 
also a sufficient plea in justification. Their object was, to 
be present at the first meeting of the rival candidates, 
when, they fancied, that there would be a keen encounter 
of wits,^ and such a display of the respective powers of the 
opponents as would enable them to form a judgment in re- 
spect to the parties, for one or other of whom they would 
be required to cast their votes. 

The intrusion was of a sort to offend nobody. The pub- 
9 


194 


BEAUCHAMPK. 


lie men were used to such familiarities, particularly at pub- 
lic hotels ; and the people somewhat presumed upon the 
dependence of the candidates upon their support, which 
would make them quite careful neither to take nor to give 
offence. 

The two gentlemen, accordingly, as the crowd made its 
appearance, welcomed all parties ; while the yeomen, ran- 
ging themselves about the entrance, suffered the invited 
guests to pass beyond them into the centre of the room. 

William Calvert, our young orator, felt a rising emotion 
at his heart, which was not, as he fancied, exactly the re- 
sult of his mental humility. It was, on the contrary, rather 
the proof of a strong craving, an intense ambition, which, 
aiming at the highest, naturally felt some misgivings of its 
own strength and securities when about to measure, for the 
first time, with a champion who was already famous. We 
have seen how these misgivings had troubled him in the 
previous dialogue, and have heard how his venerable com- 
panion had endeavored to strengthen him against them. 

The labor was perhaps an unnecessary one. The young 
man’s quailing was from his own extreme standards, rather 
than from the height and dimensions of his rival. But the 
issue between them was not destined to be one of intellect, 
and, in respect to the keen encounter of the rival wits, our 
yeomen were doomed to disappointment. But there was to 
be a trial between them, nevertheless, which probably com- 
pensated the hungering expectants for what was withheld. 

The huge, beefy landlord of the opposition house, Sutton, 
now bustled forward, having the arm of Colonel Sharpe 
within his own. The little, deformed representative of the 
Red Heifer — our house — stationing himself beside Cal- 
vert, confronted the rival landlord with an air which ex- 
hibited something more of defiance than cordiality. Very 
bitter, from time immemorial, had been the feuds between 
the two houses — not so bloody, perhaps, but quite as angry, 
bitter, and enduring, as those which sundered the factions 


THE MEETING OP THE WATERS— AN EXPLOSION. 19t> 

of York and Lancaster. Of course, the quarrel between 
them being generally understood, the defiant demonstra- 
tions of the two commanded but little notice. All eyes 
were rather addressed to the rival politicians who were 
about to meet. 

Mr. Barnabas, with bow and smirk, drew near to tha 
elder Calvert, who extended his hand to him very cour 
teously, received his gripe, and with him turned to the 
younger Calvert, to whom Colonel Sharpe was approaching 
at the same time. As the parties were about to meet, the 
colonel, shaking off the arm of his landlord, extended his 
hand to the rival : — 

“ Mr. Calvert, I believe. I am Colonel Sharpe.” 

The hand of William Calvert was extended to receive 
that of Sharpe, when it was suddenly drawn back. The 
light was now streaming full on the face of Sharpe. la 
that of William Calvert, the expression instantly became 
one of mingled astonishment and loathing. His hands were 
thrown behind his back, while, drawing his person up to 
its fullest height, he exclaimed, with a voice of equal sur- 
prise and scorn — 

“ You, sir, Colonel Sharpe — you!” 

The effect was a mute wonder in the circle. 

Sharpe started, his cheek paling, his eye flashing, at the 
unexpected reception. The audience was confounded to 
expecting silence. Sharpe himself was so surprised as not 
to be able to recover speech immediately. He did, how- 
ever, in a moment after, and said : — 

“ What is this ? 1 am Colonel Sharpe. And you, sir- 

are you not Mr. Calvert ?” 

“ Ay, sir ; and, as Mr. Calvert, I can not know Colonel 
Sharpe.” 

These words were spoken in hoarse, almost choking ac- 
cents, but full of determination. The heart of the speaker 
was swelling with indignation; his brain was fired with 
terrible reminiscences ; his cheek was flushed with inexpres- 


196 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


sible passion ; his eyes darted glances of most withering 
scorn, hate, loathing, fall in the face of his opponent. 

Aid thus stood the two for a moment. For that space, 
all was mute consternation in the circle. At length, old 
Calvert found his voice, though almost in a whisper, and, 
drawing c^ose to the young man, he said : — 

“ What do you mean, my son ? Wherefore this strange 
anger ? Who is this man, and why — ” 

Young Calvert had only time to say — “What, sir! do 
yen not see ? — when Sharpe, fully recovered from his 
momentary surprise, came forward with Barnabas, and, 
with rising accents, formally demanded an explanation. 

“ You must explain, sir — explain !” said Mr. Barnabas. 
“ Why, sir, do you say that you can not know my friend ?” 

“ For the simple reason, sir, that I know him too well 
already,’’ was the answer, made with a successful effort to 
speak in distinct and resolute tones. 

“ Ha I” exclaimed Sharpe — “ know me 

“ Ay, sir ! as a villain — a base, consummate villain 1” 

All was confusion again. 

Sharpe, with prompt fury, darted upon the speaker, put- 
ting forth all his strength of sinew for the grapple. But 
he was not the man, physically, to deal with Calvert. The 
latter seized him with a gripe of iron, and, with a moderate 
effort of muscle, flung him off, staggering, among the group 
near the door. This performance exhibited such a degree 
of strength as amply satisfied all the spectators that Cal- 
vert might well scorn such an assailant in that sort of 
encounter. 

Sharpe did not fall — was perhaps saved from falling by 
the interposing crowd. He soon recovered himself, and 
was rushing forward to renew his hopeless attempt, when 
his friend Barnabas threw his arms around him, and held 
him back. 

“ Unhand me, Barnabas ! unhand me, I say ! Shall I 
submit to a blow ?” 


THE MEETING OF THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 197 

‘‘ Surely not, Sharpe. But this is not the way.” 

For a moment, as if slowly recovering thought, Sharpe 
paused, then said huskily, and in low tones : — 

“ You are right. There must be blood ! See to it !” 

“ Stand back ! I will see to it.” 

Then advancing to the other party, Barnabas said : — 

“ Mr. Calvert, we must have an apology, or a meeting 
And the apology must be ample, sir ; and it must be public, 
as is the offence.” 

“ Apology, sir ! — to that worthless scoundrel ? You mis- 
take me, sir, very much, if you suppose that I shall apolo- 
gize to him, of all men living, whatever the offence ! It is 
possible, too, sir, that you somewhat mistake your friend. 
He will scarcely demand one — will certainly not need one 

— when he knows me — when he recalls the features of one 
who has already taught him what to fear from an avenger !” 

“ What does all this mean ?” demanded Barnabas ; while 
Sharpe eagerly stretched forward, bewildered — with curi- 
ous eyes, seeking to distinguish the features of the speaker 

— a study not much facilitated by the dim light of the two 
tallow-candles which stood upon the mantel-place. 

“ Who, then, are you, sir ?” continued Barnabas. 

“ Nay, sir,” answered the other, “ speak for your friend ! 
Your Colonel Sharpe has, I fancy, as many aliases as any 
rogue of London! Let Colonel Sharpe — if such be, in 
truth, his name — ” 

“It is his name, sir, I assure you. Why should you 
doubt it ?” 

“ I have known him by another, and one associated with 
the foulest infamy !” 

“Ha!” cried Sharpe — beginning, perhaps, to recall an 
unhappy past. 

Calvert turned full toward him. 

“ Look at me, Alfred Stevens — for such I must still call 
you — look at me, and behold one who is ready to avenge 
the dishonor of Margaret Cooper ! Ha ! villain ! do you 


198 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


start? do you slirink? do you remember now the young 
preacher of Charlemont? — the swindling, smooth-spoken 
rogue, who sought out the home of innocence to rob it ol 
peace and innocence at a blow ? Once, before this, we 
stood opposed in deadly strife. Do you think that I am 
less ready now ? Then, your foul crime had not been con- 
summated : would to God I had slain you then ! 

“ But it is not too late for vengeance ! Apology, indeed ! 
Will you fight, Alfred Stevens? Say — are you as ready 
now as when the cloth of the preacher might have been a 
protection for your cowardice ? If you are^ say to your 
friend here that apology between us is a word of vapor, 
and no meaning. Atonement — blood only — nothing less 
w'ill suffice 

Sharpe, staggered at the first address of the speaker, had 
now recovered himself. His countenance was deadly pale. 
His eyes wandered. He had been stunned by the sudden- 
ness of Calvert’s revelations. But the eyes of the crowd 
were upon him. Murmurs of suspicion reached his ears. It 
was necessary that he should take decided ground. Your 
politician must not want audacity. Nay, in proportion to 
his diminished honesty, must be his increase of brass. To 
brazen it out was his policy ; and, by a strong effort, regain- 
ing his composure, he quietly exclaimed, looking round him 
as he spoke : — 

The man is certainly mad. I know not what he 
means.” . 

“ Liar ! this will not serve you. You shall not escape 
me. You do not deceive me. You shall not deceive these 
people. Your words may deny the truth of what I say, 
but your pallid cheeks confess it. Your hoarse, choking 
accents, your down-looking eyes, confess it. The lie that 
is spoken by your tongue is contradicted by all your other 
faculties. There is no man present who does not see that 
you tremble in your secret soul ; that I have spoken noth- 
ing but the truth; that you are the base villain — the de- 


THE MEETING OF THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 199 

stroyer of beauty and innocence — that I have pronounced 
you I” 

‘‘This is strange, very strange!'’ said Mr. Barnabas. 

' The man is certainly mad,” continued Sharpe, “ or 
ta:3 is a political charge intended to destroy me. A poor, 
base trick, this of yours, Mr. Calvert. It will have no 
effect upon the people. They understand that sort of thing 
too well.” 

“ They shall understand it better,''^ said Calvert. “ They 
shall have the whole history of your baseness. Political 
trick, indeed 1 We leave tliat business to you, whose very 
'ife has been a lie. My friends — ” 

“ Stay, sir,'’ said Barnabas. “ There is a shorter way 
to settle this. My friend has wronged you, you say. He 
shall give you redress. There need be no more words 
between us.” 

“ Ay, but there must. The redress, of course ; but the 
words shall be a matter of course, also. You shall hear 
my charge against this man renewed. — I pronounce him a 
villain, who, under the name of Alfred Stevens, five years 
ago made his appearance in the village of Charlemont, 
and, pretending to be a student of divinity, obtained the 
confidence of the people ; won the affections of a young lady 
of the place, dishonored and deserted her. This is the 
charge I make against him, which will be sustained by this 
venerable man, and for the truth of which I invoke the all- 
witnessing Heaven. Alfred Stevens, I defy you to deny 
this charge.” 

“ It is all false as hell 1” was the husky answer of the 
criminal. 

“ It is true as heaven !” said Calvert, and his assevera- 
tion was now confirmed by that of the aged man by whom 
he was accompanied. 

. Nor were the spectators unimpressed by the firm, un- 
bending superiority of manner possessed by Calvert over 
that of Sharpe, who was wanting in his usual confidence. 


200 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and who, possibly from the suddenness of the charge, and 
possibly from a guilty conscience, failed in that promptness 
and freedom of utterance which, in the case of his accuser, 
was greatly increased by the feeling of scorn and indigna- 
tion wliich was so suddenly reawakened in his bosom. 

The little landlord of the Red Heifer, about this time, 
made himself particularly busy in whispering around that 
it was precisely five years ago that Colonel Sharpe had 
taken a trip to the south with his uncle, and was absent 
two thirds of the year. 

How much more the Red Heifer might have said — for 
he had his own wrongs to stimulate his hostility and mem- 
ory — can only be conjectured; for he was suddenly si- 
lenced by the landlord of the opposition-house, who threat- 
ened to wring his neck if he again thrust it forward in the 
business. 

But the hint of the little man had not fallen upon un- 
heeding ears. There were some twe or three persons who 
recalled the period of Sharpe’s absence in the south, and 
found it to agree with Calvert’s statements. The buzz be- 
came general among the crowd, but was silenced by the 
coolness of Barnabas. 

“ Mr. Calvert,” said he, “ you are evidently mistaken in 
your man. My friend denies your story as it concerns him- 
self. We do not deny that some person looking like my 
friend may have practised upon your people ; but that 
is not the man he insists. There is yet time to withdraw 
from the awkward position in which you have placed your- 
self. There is no shame in acknowledging an error. You 
are clearly in error : you can not persevere in it without 
injustice. Let me beg you, sir, for your own sake, to admit 
as much, and shake hands upon it.” 

Shake hands, and wdth him ? No, no, sir ! this can 
not be. I am in no error. I do not mistake my man. Ho 
is the very villain I have declared him. He must please 
himself as he may with the epithet.” 


THE MEETING OF THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 201 

“ I am sorry you persist in this unhappy business, Mr. 
Calvert. My friend will withdraw for the present. May I 
see you privately within the hour 

“ At any moment.” 

“ I am very much obliged to you. I like promptness in 
such matters. But, once more, sir, it is not too late. These 
gentlemen will readily understand how you have confounded 
two persons who look something alike. But there is a shade 
of difference, as you see, in the chin, the forehead, perhaps, 
the color of the eyes. Look closely, I pray you, for truly I 
should be sorry, for your own sake, to have you persist in 
your error.” 

Mr. Barnabas, in order to afford Calvert the desired op- 
portunity of discerning the difference between the charged 
and the guilty party, took the light from the mantel and 
held it close to the face of Sharpe. 

“ Pshaw!” said the latter, somewhat impatiently, “the 
fellow is a madman or a fool. Why do you trouble your- 
self further ? Let him have what he wishes.” 

The voice of Calvert, at the same moment, disclaimed 
every doubt on the score of the criminaPs identity. 

“ He is the man ! I should know him, by day and by 
night, among ten thousand 1” 

“ You won’t confess yourself mistaken, then ?” said Bar- 
nabas; “a mere confession of error — an inaccurary of 
vision — the smallest form of admission!” 

Calvert turned from him scornfully. 

“Very well, sir, if it must be so! Good people — my 
friends — you bear us witness we have tried every effort to 
jbtain peace. We are very pacific. But there is a point 
oeyond which there is no forbearance. Integrity can keep 
10 terms with slander. Not one among you but would fight 
if you were called Alfred Stevens. It is the name, as you 
hear, of a swindler — a seducer — a fellow destined for the 
high sessions for Judge Lynch. We shall hear of him un- 
ier some other alias. We have assured the young gentle- 

9 * 


202 


BEAUCHAMPB. 


man here tliat we are not Alfred Stevens, and prefer not to 
be called by a nickname ; but he persists, and you know 
what is to follow. You can all retire to bed, therefore, 
with the gratifying conviction that both gentlemen, being 
bound for it, and good Kentuckians, will be sure to do their 
duty when the time comes. Good-night, gentlemen — and 
may you sleep to waken in the morning to hear some fa- 
mous arguments. I sincerely trust that nothing will hap- 
pen to prevent any of the speakers from attending ; but life 
is the breath in our nostrils, and may go out with a sneeze. 
Of one thing 1 can assure you, that it will be no fault of 
mine if you do not hear the eloquence, at least, of Mr. 
Barnabas.” 

“ Hurra for Barnabas ! hurra !” was the cry. 

“ Hurra for Barnabas !” the echo. 

“ Calvert for ever !” roared the trombone in the corner ; 
and the several instruments followed for Sharpe, Calvert, 
and Barnabas, according to the sort of pipes and stops 
with which Providence had kindly blessed them. 


BILLETS FOR BULLETS — HOW WRITTl!.N. 


203 


CHAPTER XIX. 

BILLETS FOR BULLETS — HOW WRITTEN. 

“ I KNOW that this is unavoidable. I know not well, my 
son, how you could have acted otherwise than you did ; and 
yet the whole affair is very shocking.” 

Thus began the elder Calvert to the younger, when they 
again found themselves alone together. 

“ It is : but crime is shocking ; and death is shocking ; 
and a tliousand events that, nevertheless, occur hourly in 
life, are shocking. Our best philosophy, when they seem 
unavoidable, is, to prepare for them as resolutely as we 
prepare for death.” 

“ It may be death, my son !” said the other with a shud- 
der. 

And if it were, sir, I should gladly meet death, that I 
might have the power of avenging her ! 0 God ! when I 

think of her— so beautiful, so proud, so bright — -so dear 
to me then — so dear to me even now — I feel how worth- 
less to me are all the triumphs of life — how little worth is 
life itself!” 

And a passionate flood of tears concluded the words of 
the speaker. 

“ Give not thus way, my son. Be a man.” 

“ Am I not ? God 1 what have I not endured ? what 
have I not overcome? Will you not suffer a moment’s 
weakness — not even when I think of her ? 0 Margaret ! 

but for this serpent in our Eden, what might we not have 


204 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


been ! How might we have loved ! how happy might have 
passed those days which are now toil and hopelessness to 
me, which are shame and desolation to you ! But for this 
serpent, we had both been happy.” 

“ No, my son, that would have been impossible. But the 
speculation is useless now.” 

“ Worse than useless !” 

“ Why brood upon it, then ?” 

“ For that very reason ; as one broods over his lose, who 
does not value his gain. It is thus I think of her^ and 
cease to think of these successes. What are they to me ? 
Nothing ! Ah ! what might they not have been had she 
been mine? 0 my father! I think of her — her beauty, 
her genius — as of some fallen angel. I look upon this 
wretch as I should regard the fiend. The hoof is wanting, 
it is true, but the mark of the beast is in his face. It can 
surely be no crime to slay such a wretch : murder it can 
not be !” 

“You think not of yourself, William.” 

“ Yes ! — he may kill me ; but thinking of her, the fallen 
— and of him the beguiler — I have no fear of death — I 
know not that I have a love of life — I think only of the 
chance accorded me of avenging her cruel overthrow.” 

The re-entrance of Mr. Barnabas, interrupted the dia- 
logue. He came to make the necessary arrangements. 

“Very awkward business, Mr. Calvert — too late now 
for adjustment. May I have the pleasure of knowing the 
name of your friend.” 

Calvert named Major Hawick, a young gentleman of his 
party ; but the old man interfered. 

“ I will act for you, William.” 

“You 1” said the young man. 

“ You, old gentleman 1” exclaimed Mr. Barnabas. 

“ Yes,” replied old Calvert, with spirit, “ shall I be more 
reluctant than you to serve my friend. This, sir, is my son 
by adoption. I love him as if he were my own. I love 


BILLETS FOR BULLETS — HOW WRITTEN. 205 

.iim better than life. Shall I leave him at the very time 
when life is perilled. No — no ! I am sorry for this affair, 
but will stand by him to the last. Let us discuss the ar- 
rangements.” 

“ You’ve seen service before, old gentleman,” said Bar- 
nabas, looking the eulogium which he did not express. 

‘‘ I, too, have been young,” said the other. 

“ True blue, still,” said Barnabas ; “ and though I’m 
sorry for the affair, yet, it gives me pleasure to deal with a 
gentleman of the right spirit. I trust that your son is a 
shot.” 

“ He has nerve and eye !” 

“ Good things enough — very necessary things, but a spice 
of practice does no harm. Now, Sharpe has a knack with 
a pistol that makes it curious to see him, if you be only a 
looker-onP 

“ Let me stop you, young gentleman,” said old Calvert ; 
“ when I was a young man, such a remark would have 
been held an impertinence.” 

“ Egad !” said Barnabas, “ you have me ! Are we agreed 
then ? Shall it be pistols ?” 

“ Yes : at sunrise to-morrow.” 

“ Good !” 

Distance, when we meet,” said Calvert. 

The place of meeting was soon agreed on, and the parties 
separated ; Barnabas taking his leave by complimenting 
the “ old gentleman,” as a ‘‘ first-rate man of business.” 

“ Of course,” said he, “ after he had reported to Sharpe 
the progress of the arrangements ; “ of course you were the 
said Stevens. I saw that the fellow’s story was true at the 
first jump. It was so like you.” 

“ How if I deny it ?” 

“ I shouldn’t believe you. ’Twas too natural. Besides, 
Whisker-Ben blew you long ago, though ho could not tell 
the g'rl’s name. Where’s she now — what’s become of 
her ?” 


206 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ That’s the mystery I should give something handsoms 
to find out ; but you may guess, from the spirit this fellow 
has shown, that it wouldn’t do for me to go back to Charle’ 
mont. She was a splendid woman !” 

“ Was she though ? I reckon this fellow loved her. 
must have done so. He looked all he said.” 

“ He did ! The wonder is equally great in his case. He 
was a sort of half-witted rustic in Charlemont — Margaret 
despised him- — he wanted to fight me before, on her ac- 
count, and we were within an ace of it. His name was 
Hinkley — to think that I should meet in him the now 
famous Calvert. Look you, Barnabas ! the pistol is a way 
we had not thought of for laying our orator on his back.” 

“ Will you do it ?” 

“I must! He leaves me no alternative. He will keep 
no terms — no counsel. If he goes on to blab this business 
— nay, he can prove it, you see — he will play the devil 
with my chances.” 

“ Wing him 1 That will be enough. The fellow has 
pluck ; and for the sake of that brave old cock, his father, 
I’d like him to get off with breath enough to carry him 
farther.” 

“ No, d — n him, let him pay the penalty of his imperti- 
nence ! Who made him the champion of Margaret Cooper ? 
Were he her husband now — nay, had she even tolerated 
him — I think I should let him off with some moderate hurt ; 
but I owe him a grudge. You have not heard all, Barna- 
bas !” — the tone of the speaker was lowered here, and a 
deep crimson flush suffused his face as he corcluded the 
sentence — “ He struck me, Barnabas — he laid cowskin 
over my back 1” 

“ The d— 1 he did 1” 

“ He did — I must remember that 
“ So you must ! So you must I” 

“ I will kill him, Barnabas ! I am resolved on it ! 1 fee! 
the sting of that cowskin even now ?” 


BILLETS FOR BULLETS — HOW WRITTEN. 207 

So you must, but somehow, d — n the fellow, I’d like to 
get him off.” 

‘‘ Pshaw ! you are getting old. Certainly you are get- 
ting blind. We have a thousand reasons for not letting 
him off. He’s in our way — he’s a giant among the oppo- 
sition — the crack man they have set up against me. Even 
if 1 had not any personal causes of provocation, do you not 
see how politic it would be to put him out of the field. It’s 
he or me. If Desha succeeds, I am attorney-general ; if 
Tompkins, Calvert! No— no ! The more I think of it, 
the more necessary it becomes to kill him.” 

“ But, what if he shoots V” 

“ That he does not — he did not at least. You must, at 
all events, secure me my distance. I, suppose you will have 
little difficulty in this respect. The old man will scarcely 
know anything about these matters.” 

‘‘ You’re mistaken — he talks as if he had been at it all 
Lis life. I reckon he has fed on fire in his younger days. 
The choice, of course, is his.” 

A little adroitness, Barnabas, will give us what we 
want. You can insinuate twelve paces.” 

“ Yes, that can be done, but ten is more usual. Suppose 
he adopts ten ?” 

“ That is what I expect. He will scarcely accept your 
suggestion. He will naturally suppose, from what you say, 
that I practise at twelve. This, will, very probably, induce 
him to say ten, and then I have him on my own terms. I 
shall easily bottle him at that distance.” 

“ And you will really commission the bullet ? You ivill 
kill him ?” 

“ Must !” 

“ Sleep on that resolution first, Sharpe 1” 

“ It will do no good. It will not change me. This fel- 
low was nothing to Margaret Cooper, and what right had 
he to interfere ? Besides — you forget the cowskin.” 


208 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


‘‘ Oh ! true — d — n that cowskin ! That’s the worst part 
of the business.” 

“ Good night, Barnabas,” said Sharpe. “ See that I do 
not oversleep, my self.’ 

‘‘No fear. Good night ! Good night ! D — n the fel- 
low. Why did he use a cowskin ? A hickory had not been 
so bad. Now will Sharpe kill him to a dead certainty. 
He’s good for any button on Calvert’s coat ; and there he 
goes, yawning as naturally as if he had to meet, to-morrow 
morning, nothing worse than his hominy 


“FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE. 


209 


CHAPTER XX. 

“FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE.’» 

It was something of a sad sight to see good old Mr. Cal- 
vert, till a late hour that night, brushing up the murderous 
weapons, adjusting bullets, and cutting out patches, with all 
the interested industry of a fire-eater. It was in vain that 
his son — his adopted son, rather, for the reader should 
know by this time with whom he deals — it was in vain that 
he implored him to forego an employment which really 
made him melancholy, not on his own, but the venerable 
old man’s account. Old Calvert was principled against 
duelling, as he was principled against war ; but he recog- 
nised the necessity in both cases of employing those modes 
by which, to prevent wrong, society insists upon avenging 
it. He would have preferred that William Calvert should 
not go into the field on account of Margaret Cooper ; but, 
once invited, he recognised in all its excellence the good 
counsel of Polonius to his son : — 

“ Beware 

Of entrance to a quarrel : but being in, 

Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee." 

He at least was resolved that William should not go un- 
prepared and unprovided, in the properest manner, to do 
mischief. In the hot days of his own youth, he had acquired 
3ome considerable knowledge of the weapon, and the laws 


210 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


rather understood than expressed, which govern personal 
combat as it is, or wa?, practised in our country. His care 
was now given, not simply to the condition of the weapons, 
but the mind of the combatant. The modes by which the 
imagination is rendered obtuse — the hardening of the 
nerves — the exercise of the eye and arm — could not be 
resorted to in the brief interval which remained before the 
appointed hour of conflict — and something was due to slum- 
ber, without which, all exercise and instruction would be 
only thrown away. But there is much that a judicious 
mind can do in acting upon the moral nature of the party ; 
and the conversation of old Calvert was judiciously ad- 
dressed to this point. The young man, who had by this 
time learned to know most of the habitual trains of thought 
by which his tutor was characterized, readily perceh'cd his 
object. 

“ You mistake, my dear sir,” he said, smiling, after the 
lapse of an hour, which had been consumed as above de- 
scribed ; “ you mistake if you think I shall fail in nerve or 
coolness. Be sure, sir, I never felt half so determined in 
all my life. The remembrance of Margaret Cooper — tlie 
sense of former wrong — the loathing hate which I entertain 
for this reptile — exclude every feeling from my soul but 
one^ and that is the deliberate determination to destroy him 
if I can.” 

‘‘ This very intensity, William, will shake your nerves. 
Yo man is more cool than he who obeys no single feeling. 
Single feelings become intense and agitating from the ab- 
sence or absorption of all the rest.” 

‘‘ Feel my arm, sir,” he said, extending the limb. 

‘‘ It is firm, now^ William ; but if you do not sleep, will 
it be so in the morning ?” 

“ Yes — I have no fear of it.’’ 

“ But you will go to sleep now ? You see I have every 
thing ready.” 

“ No ! I can not, sir. I must write. I have much ■' 


“FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE.’^ 211 

say, which, to leave unsaid, would be criminal. Do you 
retire. Hawick will soon be here, who will complete what 
you have been doing. He is expert at these matters, and 
will neglect nothing. I have penned him a note to that 
effect. He will accompany us in the morning. Do you go 
to bed now. You can not, at your time of life, do without 
sleep and not suffer. It can not affect me — nay, if I did 
go to bed, it would be impossible, with these thoughts in 
my mind — these feelings in my heart — that I should close 
my eyes. I should only toss and tumble, and become ner- 
vous from very uneasiness.” 

Having finished, the old man prepared to adopt the sug- 
gestion of the young one. He rose to retire, but the 
“ good night” faltered on his lips. Young Calvert, who 
was walking to and fro, was struck by the accents. Sud- 
denly turning he rushed to the venerable man, and fell upon 
his neck. 

“Father! — more than father to me!” exclaimed the 
youth — “ forgive me if I have offended you. I feel that I 
have often erred, but through weakness only, not wilfulness. 
You have succored and strengthened — you have taught, 
counselled, and preserved me. Bless me, and forgive me, 
my father, if in this I have gone against your wishes and 
will — if I have refused your paternal guidance. Believe 
me, I have but one regret at this moment, and it grows out 
of the pain which I feel that I inflict on you. But you will 
forgive — you will bless me, my dear father, and should I 
ourvivo this meeting, I will strive to atone — to recompense 
you by the most fond service, for this one wilfulness !” 

“ God bless you, my son — God preserve you !” was the 
only reply which the old man could make. His heart 
seemed bursting with emotion, and sobs, which he vainly 
strove to repress, rose in his throat with a choking, suffo- 
cating rapidity. His tears fell upon the young man’s 
slioulder while he passionately kissed his cheek. 

“ God will save you,” he continued, as he broke away • 


212 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and, sobbing as he went from sight, his broken accents 
might still, for a few seconds, be heard in the reiteration 
of this one sentence of equal confidence and prayer. 

“ That is done — that is over !” said the youth, sinking 
into a seat beside the table where the writing materials 
were placed: his hands covered his face for a few mo- 
ments, as if to shut from sight the image of the old man’s 
agony. 

“ That word of parting was my fear, good old man !” he 
continued, after the pause of a few moments — “what a 
Spartan spirit does he possess ! Surely he loves me quite 
as well as father ever loved son before. Yet, with what 
strength of resolution he prepares the weapon — prepares to 
lose me perhaps for ever. I can not doubt that the loss will 
be great to him. It will be the loss of all. His hope, and 
the predictions of his hope, are all perilled by this ; yet 
he complains not — he has no reproaches ! 

“ Surely, I have been too wanton — too rash — too precip- 
itate in this business ! What to me is Margaret Cooper ! 
Her beauty, her talents, and that fair fame of which this 
reptile has for ever robbed her ! She loved me not — she 
hearkened not to my prayer of love — to that love which 
can not perish though the object of its devotion, like a star 
gone suddenly from a high place at night, has sunk for ever 
into darkness. I am not pledged to fight her battles — to 
repair her shame — to bruise the head of the reptile by 
which she was beguiled. 

“ Alas ! I can not reason after this cold fashion. Is it 
not because of this reptile that she is nothing to me — and 
does not this make her defence everything — heighten the 
passion of hate, and make bloody vengeance a most sacred 
virtue ? 

“ It does — it must. Alfred Stevens, I can not choose 
but seek thy life. The imploring beauties of Margaret 
Cooper rise before me, and command me. I will try ! Sc 
help me God^ a3 I believe, that the sacrifice of the reptib 


FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE.' 


that crawls to the family altar to leave its shV.e and venom 
is a duty with man — due to the holiest hopes and affeo 
tions of man — and is praiseworthy in the sight cf God ! I 
can not choose but believe this. God give me strength to 
convert desire into performance !” 

He raised the pistol, unconsciously, as he spoke, lie 
pressed it to his forehead. He lifted it in the sight of 
Heaven, as if, in this way, he solemnized his oath. The 
grasp of the weapon in his hand suggested a new trf>in of 
emotion. 

“I may fall — I may perish! The hopes of this good 
old man — my own hopes — may all be set at naught. Can 
it be that in a few hours I shall be nothing ? This voice be 
silent — this arm cold, unconscious, upon this cold bosom. 
Strange, terrible fancy ! — I must not think of it. It makes 
me shudder! It is too late for thoughts like these. I 
must be a man now— a man only. The mere pang — that 
is nothing. But he — thrice a father — he will feel three- 
fold pangs which shall be more lasting. Yet, even with 
him, they can not endure long. Who else ? My poor, poor 
mother !” 

He paused — he drew the paper before him — a tear fell 
upon the unwritten sheet, and he thrust it away. 

“ There is one other pain ! One thought !” he murmured. 
“These high hopes — these schemes of greatness — these 
dreams of ambition — stopped suddenly — like rich flowers 
blooming late, cut down at midnight by the premature 
frost ! Oh ! if I perish r w, how much will be left un- 
done ?” 

Once more the youth started to his feet and paced the 
chamber. But he -soon subdued the rebellious struggles of 
his more human nature. Quieted once more he sought to 
baffle thought by concentrating himself upon his tasks. 
Resuming his place at the table, he seized his pen. Letter 
after letter grew beneath his hands ; and the faint gray 
light of the dawn peeped in at the windows before he had 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


2ii 

yet completed the numerous tasks which required his in- 
dustry. 

A tap at the door drew his attention and he opened it 
wO recei*:"e his friend, Major Hawick. 

“You are ready,” said Hawick — “ but you seem not to 
have slept. How’s this ? You promised me ” 

“ But could not keep my promise. I had much to do, 
and felt that I could not sleep. I was too much excited.’^ 

“ That is unfortunate !” 

“ It will do no harm. With my temperament I do things 
much better when excited than not. The less prepared, 
the better prepared.” 

“ Where’s the old gentleman ?” 

“He sleeps still. We will not disturb him. We will 
steal out quietly, and I trust everything will be over before 
he wakens. I have left a note for him with these letters.” 

But few moments more did they delay. 

William Calvert remedied to a certain extent the fatigue 
of his night of unrest, by plunging his head into a basin of 
cold water. The preparations of the party were already 
made ; and they issued forth without noise, and soon found 
themselves on the field. Their opponents appeared a few 
moments after. 

“ A pleasant morning, gentlemen,” said Mr. Barnabas. 
“ But how is it I do not see my old friend here, eh ? I had 
a fancy he would not miss it for the world !” 

A rustling among the bushes at a little distance, at this 
moment, saved William Calvert from the necessity of an- 
swering the question. There was the old man himself. 

“ Ah, William !” he said reproachfully, “ was this kind?” 

“ Truly, sir, it was meant to be so. I would have spared 
you this scene if possible.” 

“ It was not kind, William, but you meant kindly. You 
did not know me, my son. Had I not been here with you, 
in the moment of danger, I should always have felt as if I 
had suffered shame.” 


«PIVE PACES — WHEEL \.ND FIRE.^‘ 21o 

The youth was touched, and turned aside to conceal his 
emotion. The friends of the pai^ties approached in confer- 
ence. The irregularity of Major Hawick’s attendance beinj 
explained, and excused under the circumstances, he re- 
mained as a mere spectator. The arrangements then being 
under consideration, Mr. Barnabas said casually, and seem- 
ingly with much indifference — 

Well, I suppose, sir, we will set them at twelve paces.” 

“ Very singular that you should offer a suggestion on this 
subject!” was the sharp reply of Mr. Calvert; “ this point 
is with us.” 

“Oh, surely, surely — but, this being about the usual 
distance — ” 

“ It is not ours^ sir,” said the other coolly.^ 

“ What do you propose, then ?” 

“Five paces, sir — back to back — wheel and fire within 
the words oile and two.” 

Colonel Sharpe, who heard the words, started, and grew 
suddenly pale. 

“ A most murderous distance, sir, indeed !” said Mr. Bar- 
nabas gravely. “ Are you serious, sir ? I)o you really 
mean to insist on what you say ?” 

“ Certainly, sir : if I ever jested at all, it should not be 
on such an occasion. These are our terms.” 

“ We must submit, of course,” said the other, as he pro- 
ceeded to place his principal. While doing this. Colonel 
Sharpe was observed to speak with him somewhat earnestly. 
Mr. Barnabas, immediately after, agaip advanced to Mr. 
Calvert, and said 

“ In consenting to your right, sir, on the subject of dis- 
tance, I must at the same time protest against it. The 
consequences, sir, must lie on your head only. I have no 
doubt that both parties will be blown to the devil !” 

Hawick also approached, and whispered the elder Cal- 
vert, ill earnest expostulation against this arrangement. 

“ It is impossible for either to escape,” he said ; “ they 


216 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


are both firm men, and both will fire with great quickness. 
The distance is very unueual, sir ; and, if the affair ends 
fatally, the reproach will be great.’’ 

For a moment the old man hesitated, and looked bewil- 
dered. His eye earnestly sought the form of William Cal- 
vert, who was calmly walking at a little distance. He was 
silent for a few seconds ; but, suddenly recovering himself, 
he murmured, rather in soliloquy than in answer to his com- 
panion : — 

‘‘ No, no ! it must be so : we must take this risk, to avoid 
a greater. I see through these men ; there is no other way 
to baflie them.” 

He advanced to Mr. Barnabas. 

“ I see no reason to alter my arrangement. To a brave 
man, the nearer the enemy the better.” 

A good general principle, sir, but liable to abuse,” said 
Barnabas ; “ but as you please. We toss for the word.” 

The word fell to Calvert. The parties were placed, 
back to back, with a space of some ten feet between — 
space just enough for the grave of one. With the word, 
which was rather gasped than syllabled by the old man, 
William Calvert wheeled. The first instant glance that 
showed him his enemy drew his fire, and was followed by 
that of his foe. 

In the first few moments after, standing himself, and see- 
ing his enemy still stood, he fancied that no harm had been 
done. Already the words were on his lips to call for the 
other pistol, when he felt a sudden sickness and dizziness ; 
his right thigh grew stiffened, and he lapsed away upon the 
earth, just as the old man drew nigh to his assistance. 

The bullet had entered the fleshy part of his hip, and 
had lodged there, narrowly avoiding the bone. 

These particulars were afterward ascertained. At first, 
however, the impression of the old man, and that of Major 
Hawick, was, that the wound was mortal. We will not 
seek to describe the mental agony of the former. It was 


“FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE. 


217 


now that his conscience spoke in torturous self-upbraidings ; 
and, throwing himself beside the unconscious youth, he 
moaned as one who would not be comforted, until assured 
by the more closely-observing Hawick, who, upon inspect- 
ing the wound, gave him hope of better things. 

Colonel Sharpe was more fortunate. He was uninjured, 
but he had not escaped untouched. His escape, though 
more complete than that of Calvert, had been even yet 
more narrow — the bullet of the former actually barking 
his skull just above the ear, and slightly lacerating the skin 
over his organ of destructiveness. So narrow an escape 
made him very anxious to avoid a second experiment, which 
William Calvert, feebly striving to rise from the ground, 
readily offered himself for. But, while the youth spoke, 
Lis strength failed him, and he soon sunk away in utter 
unconsciousness. 

Thus ended an affair that promised to be more bloody in 
its results. Perhaps it would have been, but for the ar- 
rangements which old Calvert insisted on. Had the ten 
paces been acceded, there is little doubt that Sharpe, se- 
cure in his practice, would have inflicted a death-wound on 
his opponent. The alteration of distance, the necessity of 
wheeling to fire, and a proximity to his enemy so close as 
to leave skill but few if any advantages, served to disorder 
his aim, and impair his coolness. It was with no small 
degree of satisfaction that he departed, leaving his enemy 
hors de combat. We, too, shall leave him, and follow the 
progress of the more fortunate party ; assured, as we are, 
that the wound of our young hero, though serious, is not 
dangerous, and that he is in the hands of those who will 
refuse sleep to their eyelids so long as he needs that they 
should watch. 

It will not materially affect the value of this narrative to 
omit all further account of that political canvassing by 
which these parties were brought into a juxtaposition so 
fruitful of unexpected consequences. It will suffice to say 

10 


218 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


that, with Calvert removed from the stump, Colonel Sharpe 
remained master of it. His eloquence that day seemed far 
more potential, indeed, than on ordinary occasions. No 
doubt he tried his best, in order to do away with what 
Calvert had previously succeeded in doing ; but there was 
an eclat about his morning’s work which materially assisted 
the working of his eloquence. The proceedings of the pre- 
vious night, and the duel which succeeded it, were pretty 
well bruited abroad in the space of a few hours ; and when 
a man passes with success from the field of battle to the 
field of debate, and proves himself equally the master m 
both, vulgar wonder knows little stint, and suffers little 
qualification from circumstances. Nay, the circumstances 
themselves are usually perverted to suit the results; and, 
in this case, the story, by the zeal of Sharpe’s friends, so 
far from showing that the quarrel grew from the facts which 
did occasion it, was made to have a political origin entirely 
— Sharpe being the champion of one, and Calvert of the 
other party. 

It may be readily conjectured that Sharpe himseif gave 
as much encouragement to this report as possible. Bold 
as he might be, he was not altogether prepared to encoun- 
ter the odium to which any notoriety given to the true 
state of the case would necessarily subject him. His par- 
tisans easily took their cue from him, and were willing tc 
accept the affair as a sign of promise in the political con- 
test which was to ensue. We may add that it wms no un- 
happy augury. The friends of Sharpe were triumphant , 
and Desha — one of those mauvaise sujets which a linic of 
great moral ferment in a country throws upon the surface, 
like scum upon the waters when they are broken up by 
floods, and rush beyond their appointed boundaries — was 
elevated, most unhappily, to the executive chair of the state. 

Thus much is perhaps essential to what should be known 
of these matters in the progress of our story. How much 
of this result was due to the unfortunate termination of 


FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIREJ 


219 


Calvert’s affair with Sharpe, is difficult to determine. The 
friends of the former ascribed their defeat to his wounds, 
which disabled him from the prosecution of that canvass 
through the state which had been so profitably begun. They 
were baffled and dispirited. Their strong man was low ; 
and, gratified with successes already won, and confident of 
the future. Colonel Sharpe closed the night at Bowling- 
Green by communicating to Beauchampe, by letter, his pur- 
pose of visiting him on his return route — an honor which, 
strange enough to Beauchampe himself, did not afford him 
that degree of satisfaction which it seemed to him was only 
natural that it should. 


220 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SPECK OF CLOUD UPON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 

Beauchampe and his wife sat together beside the opou 
window. It was night — a soft mellowing light fell upon 
the trees and herbage, and the breeze mildly blew in pleas- 
ant gushes about the apartment. In the room was no light. 
Her hand was in his. Her manner was thoughtful, and, 
when she spoke, her words were low and subdued as if, in 
lier abstract mood, it needed some effort of her lips to 
speak. 

Beauchampe himself was more moody than his wont. 
There is always, in the heart of one conscious of the recent 
possession of a new and strongly-desired object, a feeling 
of uncertainty. Even the most sanguine temperament, 
feels, at times, unassured of its own blessings. Perhaps, 
such feelings of doubt and incertitude are intended to give 
us a foretaste of those final privations to which life is 
everywhere certainly subject ; and to reconcile us, by nat- 
ural degrees, to the last dread separation in death. At all 
events nothing can be more natural than such feelings. Our 
hearts faint with fear in the very moment when we are rev- 
elling in the sober certainty of waking bliss ! When Love, 
hooded and fettered, refuses to quit his cage — when every 
dream appears satisfied ; when peace, fostered by security, 
seems to smile in the conviction of a reality which prom- 
ises fullest permanence ; and the imagination knows noth- 
ing to crave, and even egotism loses its strong passion for 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 221 

complaint ; even then we shudder, as with an instinct that 
teaches much more than any thought, and knocks more 
loudly at the door of the heart, than any of its more reason- 
able apprehensions. 

This instinct was at work, at the same moment, in both 
their bosoms. 

“ 1 know not why it is,’’ said Beauchampe, “ but I feel 
as if something were to happen. I feel unaccountably sad 
and apprehensive. It is not a fear — scarcely a doubt, that 
fills my mind — nay, for that matter my mind is silent — I 
strive to think in vain. It is a sort of voice from the soul 
— a presentiment of evil — more like a dream in its ap- 
proaches, and yet, in its influence, more real, more em- 
phatic, than any actual voice speaking to my outward ears. 
Do you ever have such feelings, Anna ?” 

“ I have them now she answered in low tones. 

‘‘ Indeed ! it is very strange !” 

He put his arm about her waist as he spoke, and drew 
her closer to himself. Her head sunk upon his shoulder. 
He did not behold them, but her eyes were filled with 
tears. 

How strange were such tears to her ! How suddenly 
had she undergone a change — and such a change ! She 
who had never known fear, was now timid as a child. 
Love is, before all, the great subduer. It was in an un 
known condition of peace and pleasure that the wife of 
Beauchampe had become softened. Apprehension necessa- 
rily succeeds to conquest. There is no courage so cool and 
collected as that which has nothing to lose ; and timidity 
naturally grows from a consciousness of large, valuable, 
and easily endangered possessions. Such was the origin 
of the fear in the bosoms of both. 

Certainly they had much to lose ! Happiness is always 
an unstable possession, and we know this by instinct. The 
union of the two had perfected the union of the two families. 
Mrs. Beauchampe, the elder, in the very obvious and re- 


OOO 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


markable change of manner, which followed the marriage 
of Miss Cooke with her son, had become reconciled — nay, 
pleased with the match. Mary Beauchampe was of course 
all joy and all tears ; and even Jane, escaped from the first 
danger of being swallowed up, was gradually brought to 
see the intellectual beauties, and the personal also, of her 
brother’s wife, witliout beholding her sterner aspects. 

For the present, Beauchampe lived with his wife’s mother, 
but the two families were together daily. They walked, 
rode, sang, read, and played together. They made a little 
world to tliemselves, and they were so happy in it ! The 
tastes of Beauchampe gradually became more and more re- 
fined and elevated under the nicer sway of feminine taste, 
and those delicacies of direction which none can so well 
impart as a higlily-intellectual woman. He no longer 
dreamed of such ordinary distinctions as make up the small 
hopes of witling politicians. To be the great bell-wether 
of a clamorous flock, for a season, did not now constitute 
the leading object of his ambition. Far from it. A short 
month of communion with an enthusiastic, high-souled 
woman — unhappy, perhaps, that she was so — had wrought 
as decided a change in his moral nature, as the love which 
he brought had operated upon hers. They were both 
changed. But it needs not that we should dwell upon the 
power of Love to tame, and subject, and elevate the base 
and stubborn nature. Surely it is no mere fable, rightly 
read, which makes him lead the lion with a thread. Briefly, 
there is no human beast that he can not, with the same 
ease, subdue. 

Before meeting with his wife, however, Beauchampe was 
superior in moral respects to his associates. This must be 
understood. He had strength of mind and ambition ; he 
was generous, free in his impulses, and usually more gentle 
in their direction than was the case with his companions. 
His rudenesses were those of the rustic, whose sensibilities 
yet sleep in his soul, like the undiscovered gold in the dark 


bPECK OF .CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 223 

pldceiT of the sullen mountain. It was for Love to detect 
the slight vein leading to these recesses, and to refine the 
treasure to which it led. Great, in matters of this sort, is 
that grand alchemist. The model of refiners is he !' No 
Rosicruciar. ever did so much to turn the baser metal into 
gold. Unliappily, as in tlie case of other seekers after 
'rrojectian; it is sometimes the case that the grand experi- 
ment finishes in fumo^ and possibly with a loud explosion. 

But it does not become us to jest in this stage of our 
narrative. Too sad, too serious, are the feelings with 
which we new must deal. If Beauchampe and his wife are 
happy, they are so in the activity and excitement of those 
.sensibilities which are the most liable to overthrow. In 
proportion t(> the exquisite sweetness of the sensation, is its 
close approximation to the borders of pain. The joy of the 
soul which is the source of all the raptures of love, is itself 
a joy Df sadness, and yearning and excessive apprehension. 
Soon does this apprehension rise to cloud the pleasure and 
oppress the hope. This is the origin of those presenti- 
ments, which say what our thoughts can not say, and in 
spite of our thoughts. They grew in the bosom of Beau- 
champe and his wife, along with the necessity which he 
felt and had declared, of assuming vigorously the duties of 
his profession. These duties required that he should move 
into a more busy sphere, and this duty involved the removal 
of his wife from that seclusion in which, for the last five 
years, her sensibilities had found safety. This, to her, was 
a source of terror ; and she trembled with a singular fear 
lest, in doing so — in going once more out into the world 
she had left, she should encounter her betrayer. 

Very different now were her feelings toward Alfred 
Stevens. For five years had she treasured the one vindic- 
tive hope of meeting him with the purpose of revenge. For 
five years had she moulded the bullets, and addressed them 
to the mark which symbolized his breast. Her chief prayer 
in all this time, was, that she might behold him with power 


224 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to employ upon him the skill which she had daily shown 
upon the insensible trees of the, forest. To kill him, and 
then to die, was all that she had prayed for — and now ths 
difference ! 

In one little month all this had undergone a change. Her 
feelings had once more been humanized — perhaps we shouin 
say womanized ; for, in these respects, women are mere 
capricious than men, and the transitions of love to hate, and 
hate to love, are much more rapid in the case of a grow:r 
woman than in that of a grown man. As for boys, until 
twenty-five, they are perhaps little more than girls in 
breeches — certainly they are quite as capricious. The ex- 
perience of five years after twenty-five does more to harden 
the sensibilities of a man, than any other ten years of his 
life. 

Great, indeed, was the change in this respect which 
Beauchampe’s wife had undergone. Not to meet Stevens 
was now her prayer. True, she had sworn her husband, 
if they did meet, to take his life. But that had been the 
condition of her hand — that was before he had become her 
husband — before she well knew his value — before she 
could think upon the risks which she herself would incur, 
by the danger which, in the prosecution of this pledge, 
would necessarily accrue to him. Nor was her change of 
character less decided in another grand essential. In 
learning to forget and forgive, she had also learned to forego 
the early dreams with which her ambitious mind com- 
menced its progress. 

“ You speak of fame, Beauchampe,” she said, even while 
sitting as we have described, in the darkness, looking forth 
upon the faint light which the stars shed upon the garden- 
shrubbery : “ you speak of fame, Beauchampe — oh ! how I 
once dreamed of it ! Now, I care for it nothing. Rather, 
indeed, should- 1 prefer, if we could remain here, out of the 
world’s eye, living to ourselves, and secure from that opin- 
ion which we are too apt to seek ; upon which we too much 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OP HAPPINESS. 225 

depend — which does net confer fame, and but too often 
robs us of happiness. It is my presentiment, on this very 
subject, which makes me dread the removal to Frankfort 
which you contemplate.” 

“ And yet,” said he, “ I know not how we can avoid it. 
It seems necessary.” 

“ I believe it, and do not mean to urge you against it. I 
only wish tliat it were not necessary. But, being so, I will 
go with you cheerfully. I am not daunted by the prospect, 
though it oppresses me. How much more happy, if we 
could live here always !” 

“ No, no, Anna, you would soon sicken of this. You 
would ask, ‘ Why have I married this rustic V You will 
hear of the great men around, and will say, ‘ 11 e might 
have been one of them ’ Your pride is greater than you 
believe ; you are not so thoroughly cured of your ambition 
as you tliink.” 

“ Oh, indeed, I am ! I look back to the days when I had 
a passion for fame as to a period when I was under mono- 
mania. Truly, it was a monomania. 0 Beauchampe, had 
you known me then !” 

Why had I not ? We had been so happy then, Anna — 
we had saved so many days of bliss, and then — but it is 
not too late ! Anna, there is no good reason why a genius 
such as yours should be obscured — lost for ever. The 
world must know it, and worship it !” 

“ The world ? — oh, never !” she exclaimed, with a shud- 
der. “ The world is my terror now. Would we could 
never know it !” 

‘‘ But why these scruples, dearest ?” 

“Why? Can you ask, Beauchampe? Do you forget 
what I have been — what I am ?” 

“ You o.re my tvife, a7id I am a man. Do you think th(5 
world will venture to speak a word which shall shame or 
annoy you ?” 

“ It is not in its soeech, but in its knowledg e 
10 * 


226 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ But what will it know ? Nothing/ 

“ Unless we meet with 
“ And if we do ? — ” 

“ Ah ! let us speak of it no more, Beauchampe/' 

“ One word only ! If we meet with him, he dies, and is 
thus silenced ! Will it be likely that he will speak of that, 
which only incurs the penalty of death ?” 

“Enough! enough! The very inquiry — the conjecture 
wliich you utter, Beauchampe— is conclusive with me that 
I should not go into the world. With you, as your wife — 
humble, shrinking out of sight, solicitous only of obscurity, 
and toiling only for your applause and love — I shall be 
permitted to pass without indignity — without waking up 
that many-tongued slanderer that lies ever in wait, dogging 
the footsteps of ambition. Were I now to seek the praises 
which you and others have thought due to my genius, I 
should incur the hostility of the foul-mouthed and the envi- 
ous. No moment of my life would be secure from suspi- 
"ion, no movement of my mind safe from the assaults of tlie 
caviller. It is one quality of error — nay, even of misfor- 
tune — to betray itself wherever it goes. The proverb telln 
us that murder will have a tongue : it appears to me, that 
all crimes will reveal themselves in some way, some day or 
other. Better, Beauchampe, that I remain unseen, un- 
known, than be known as I am ! — ” 

“ Better ? — but this can not be ; you must be seen — you 
will be known ! The world will seek you, to admire. Re- 
member, Anna, that I have friends — numerous friends; 
among them are some of the ablest men of our profession — 
of any profession. There is no man better able than this 
very gentleman. Colonel Sharpe, to appreciate a genius such 
as yours.” 

“Do not mock me with such language, Beauchampe! 
Instead of thinking of the world’s admiration, I should be 
thinking only of its possible discoveries. As for Colon ji 
Sharpe, somehow I have a.i impiassiou - -gathered, I know 


SPECK OP CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 


227 


not how, but possibly from his letters — that he lacks sin- 
cerity. There is a tone of skepticism and levity about his 
language which displeases and pains me. lie lacks heart. 
I only wonder how you should have sought your professional 
knowledge at his hands.” 

“You forget, Anna, that I sought nothing at his hands 
but professional knowledge ; and most persons will tell you 
that I could scarcely have sought it anywhere with greatei 
prospect of finding it. He is one of our best lawyers. As 
a man, frankly I confess to you, he is not one whom I ad 
mire. You seem to me to have hit his right character. 
He has always seemed to lack sincerity ; and this impres- 
sion, which he made upon me at a very early period, lias 
always kept me from putting more of my heart within his 
power than was absolutely unavoidable.” 

“Ah, Beauchampe, a man of your earnest temperament 
knows not how much he gives. You carry your heart too 
much in your eyes — in your hand. This is scarcely good 
policy.” 

“ With you, dearest, it was the only policy,” he said, 
with a smile, while he pressed her closer to his bosom. 

“Ah! with me? — But that is yet to be determined. 
You know not yet.” 

“ What ! are you not mine ? Do I not feel you in my 
arms ? do I not embrace you ?” 

“ It may be that you embrace death, Beauchampe !” 

“ Speak not so gloomily, my love. Why should you 
yield yourself to such vague and nameless apprehensions ? 
There is nothing to cloud our prospect, which, when I think, 
seems all bright and cloudless as the night we gaze on 1” 

“ Ah ! when you think, Beauchampe : but thought is no 
seer, though an active speculator. You forget these in- 
stincts, Beauchampe — these presentiments!” 

“ I have forgotten mine,” he answered, livelily. 

“ Ah ! but mine depart not so soon. They rise still, and 
will continue to rise.” 


228 


BEAfrCHAMPE. 


“ You brood over — you encourage them.” 

“ No ! but they seem a part of me. I have always had 
them, even in the days of my greatest exultation ; when, in 
truth, I had no cares to suggest them. They have marked 
and preceded^ like omens, all my misfortunes. Should I 
not fear them, then ?” 

“Not now : it is only the old habit of your mind which 
IS now active. Gloomy thoughts and complaining accents 
become habitual ; and, even when the sun shines, the eye, 
long accustomed to the cloud, still fancies that it beholds 
it gathering blackly in the distance. Now, you are secure. 
Your cloud is gone, dearest — never, never to return.” 

“See where it rises, Beauchampe, an image on the night ! 
How ominous, were these days of superstition, would that 
dark image be of our fortunes ! Even as you spoke, witli 
such constant assurance, the evening-star grew faint. Lovc-s 
own star waned in the growing darkness of the west ; love’s 
own star seemed to shroud itself in gloom at the prediction 
which so soon may be rendered false. Look how fast is 
the ascent of that gloomy tabernacle of the storm! Not 
one of the lovely lights in that quarter of the sky remains 
to clieer us. Even thus, have the lights of my hope for 
ever gone out. That first light of my soul, which was the 
morning-star of my being — its insane passion for fame — 
was thus obscured. Then, the paler gleams of evening, 
which denoted love ; and how fast, after, followed all that 
troop of smaller lights which betokened the dreams and 
hopes of a warm and throbbing heart ! Ah, Beauchampe ! 
faded, stricken out, not one by one, as the joys and hopes 
of others, but with a sudden eclipse that swept all their 
delusive legions at a moment out of sight — never, never to 
return !” 

“ Say not, never !” 

“Ah! it is my fear which speaks — the long sense of 
desolation and dread which has made up so many years of 
my life! — it is this which makes me speak, from a con vie- 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 229 

tion of the past, with a dark, prophetic apprehension of the 
future. True, that the love blesses me now — a delusive 
image of which defrauded me before — but liow, with the 
sudden rising of that cloud before my eyes, even in the 
hour of your boastful speech and perhaps iny no less boastful 
hope — how can I else believe than that another delusion, no 
less fatal than the past, though now untouched with shame, 
has found its way to my heart, beguiling me with hope, only 
to sink me in despair?’’ 

“ Ah ! why such speech, Anna ? my love is no delusion,” 
said the husband reproachfully. 

‘‘I meant not that, Beauchampe — I believe not that. 
Heaven knows I hold it as a truth — and the sweetest 
truth that my soul has ever known in its human experi- 
ence. But for its permanence I feared. I doubted not 
that the light was pure and perfect ; but, alas ! I knew not 
how soon it might go out. I felt that it was a bright star 
shining down upon my soul ; but I also feel that there is a 
gloomy storm rising to obscure the star, and leave me in a 
darkness more complete than ever. 0 Beauchampe ! if we 
should ever meet that man — ” 

“ He dies, Anna !” 

“ Oh, no ! I mean not that.” 

“ Have I not sworn ?” 

“ Yes ! but the exaction of that oath was in my madness 
— it was impious : I shudder but to think of it. May you 
never, never meet with him.” 

“ Amen ! I trust that we may never 1” 

‘‘ Could I but be sure of that !” 

“Let it not trouble you, dearest; we may never meet 
with him.” 

“ Ay, but we may; and the doubt of that dreadful possi- 
bility, flings a gloomy shadow over the dear, sweet reality 
of the present.” 

“ Be of better cheer, my heart. You are mine. You 
know that nothing is loft for me to learn. You look to me 


230 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


for love — 70U depend not upon the world, but upon me. 
That world, as it can teach me nothing of your value, that 
can make the smallest approach to the certainties which 1 
feel, so it can report nothing in your disparagement which 
your own lips have not already spoken. Why then should 
you fear ? At the worst, we can only sink out of the 
world’s sight when its looks irk, or its tones annoy us.” 

“ Ah ! that is not so easy, Beauchampe. Once out of the 
world’s eye, nothing is so easy as to remain so. But the 
world pursues the person who has challenged its regard ; 
and haunts the dwelling where it fancies it may find a spot 
of shame. Besides, is not your fame precious to me as well 
as to yourself. -This profession of yours, more than any 
other in our country, is that which concentrates upon itself 
the public gaze. When you have won this gaze, Beau- 
champe, when you have controlled the eager ears of an 
audience, and commanded the admiration of an admiring 
multitude — if, at this moment, some slanderous finger 
should guide the eye of the spectator from the command- 
ing eminence of the orator to the form of her who awaits 
him at home, and say, ‘ What pity !’ Ah ! Beauchampe ! — ” 

“ Speak of it no more,” said Beauchampe, and there was 
a faintness in his accents while he spoke, that made it cer- 
tain that he felt annoyance from the suggestion. Unwit- 
tingly, she sighed, as her keen instinct detected the feeling 
wliich her words had inspired. Beauchampe drew her 
closer to him, forced her upon his knee, and sought, by the 
adoption of a tone and words of better assurance, to do 
away with the gloomy presentiments under which her mood 
was evidently and painfully struggling. 

“I tell you, Anna, these are childish fancies! — at the 
worst, mere womanish fears ! Believe me, when I tell you, 
that the days shall now be bright before you. You have 
had your share of the cloud. There is no lot utterly void 
and dark. God balances our fortunes with singular equality. 
None are all prosperous — none are all unfortunate. If the 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 231 


youth be one of gloom and trial, the manhood is likely to be 
bright and cheerful ; while he, who in youth has known 
sunshine only, will, in turn, most probably be compelled to 
taste the cup of bitterness for which he is wholly unpre- 
pared. It is perhaps fortunate for all to whom the bitter- 
r css of this cup becomes, in youth, familiar. At the worst, 
if still compelled to drink of it, the taste is more certainly 
reconciled to its ungracious flavor. That you have had 
this poisoned chalice commended to your lips in youth, is 
perhaps something of a guaranty that you shall escape the 
draught hereafter. So far from the past, therefore, fling- 
ing its huge dark shadow upon the future, it should be re- 
garded as a solemn background, w'hich, by contrast, shall 
reflect more brightly than were it not preserii, the gay, 
gladdening lights which shall gather and burn about your 
pathway. I tell you, dearest, I know this shall be the case. 
You have outlived the storm — you shall now have sunny 
skies and smooth seas. Neither this beauty which I call 
my own, nor these talents which are so certainly yours, 
shall be doomed to the obscurity to which your unnecessary 
fears would assign them. I tell you I shall yet behold you, 
glowing among, and above, the ambitious circle. I shall 
yet hear the rich words of your song fleating through the 
charmed assembly, at once startling tlie soul and soothing 
the still ear of admiration. Come, come — fling aside this 
shadow from your heart, and let it show itself in ail its 
glory. Look your best smiles, my love — and — will you 
not sing me now one of those proud songs, which you safig 
for me the other night — one of those which tell me how' 
proud, how ambitious was your genius in the days of your 
girlliood? Do not deny me, Anna. Sing for me— siig 
for me one of those songs.” 

She began a strain, though with reluctance, which de- 
clared all the audacious egotism which is usually felt, if not 
always expressed, by the ardent and conscious poet. The 
fame for which she had once yearned — the wild dreams 


232 


BKArcriAMrE. 


which once possessed lier imagination and influenced her 
hope — were poured forth in one of those irregular floods 
of harmony — at once abrupt and musical — which never 
issue from the lips of the mere instructed minstrel. Truly, 
it might have awakened the soul under the ribs of death ; 
and the heart of Beauchampe bounded and struggled with- 
in him, not capable of action, yet full, as it seemed, of a 
most impatient discontent. Wrought up to that enthusi- 
asm of which his earnest nature was easily susceptible, he 
caught her in his arms almost ere the strain was ended, and 
tlie thought which filled his mind, arising from the admira- 
tion which he felt, was that which told him what a sin it 
would be, if such genius should be kept from its fitting ut- 
terance before admiring thousands. The language of eulogy 
which he had used to her a few moments before was no 
longer that of hyperbole ; and, releasing her from his 
grasp, while she concluded the strain, he paced the floor 
of the apartment, meditating with the vain pride of an 
adoring lover, upon the sensation which such a song, and so 
sung, would occasion in the souls of any audience. 

The strain ceased. The silence which followed, though 
deep and breathless, was momentary only. A noise of ap- 
proaching horses was heard at the entrance ; and the pre- 
scient heart of the wife sunk within her. She felt as if 
this visit were a foretaste of that world which she feared ; 
and, hurrying up to her chamber, while Beauchampe went 
to the entrance, she endeavored, by a brief respite from the 
trials of reception — and in solitude — to prepare her mind 
for an encounter, the anticipated annoyance from which 
was, however, of a very different character from that to 
which she was really destined. 


THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 


•233 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 

She was not suffered to remain long in suspense. The 
first accents of the strange voice addressing her husband 
at the door, and which reached her ears in her chamber, 
proved the speaker to be no stranger. Fearfully her heart 
sank within her as she heard it. The voice was that of 
Alfred Stevens ! Five years had elapsed since she had 
heard it last, yet its every tone was intelligible ; clear as 
then ; distinct, unaltered — in every syllable the same utter- 
ance of the same wily assassin of innocence and love ! 

What were her emotions ? It were in vain to attempt to 
describe them — there is no need of analysis. There was 
nothing compounded in them — there was no mystery ! The 
pang and the feeling were alike simple. Her sensations 
were those of unmitigated horror. “ One stupid moment, 
motionless, she stood,’’ then sunk upon her knees ! Her 
hands were clasped — her eyes lifted to heaven — but she 
could not pray. “ God be with me !” was her only broken 
ejaculation, and the words choked her. 

The trial had come ! Her head throbbed almost to burst- 
ing. She clasped it with her cold hands. It felt as if the 
bony mansion could not much longer contain the fermenting 
A. Ad striving ma-e within. Yet she had to struggle. It 
was necessary that the firm soul should not yield, air^ hers 
was really no feeble one. Striving and struggling to sup- 
press the feeling of horror which every moment threatened 


234 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to burst, she could readily comprehend the relief that nature 
could afford her — could she only break forth in hysterical 
convulsions. But these convulsions would be fatal — not to 
herself — not to life, perhaps, for that was not now a sub- 
ject of apprehension. It would endanger her secret ! That 
was now her fear. 

To preserve her equilibrium — to suppress the torments 
and the troubles of her soul — to keep Beauchampe from the 
knowledge that the man he had sworn to slay was his 
friend, and was even now a guest upon his threshold — this 
was the important necessity. It was this necessity that 
made the struggle so terrible. 

She shook like an aspen in the wind. Her breast heaved 
with spasmodic efforts that were only not convulsions ; her 
limbs trembled — she could not well walk — yet she could 
not remain where she knelt. To kneel without submission, 
while her soul still struggled with divided impulses, was to 
kneel in vain. The consolation of prayer can only follow 
the calmness of the soul. That was not hers — could not 
be. Yet it was necessary that she should appear calm. 
Terrible trial ! She tottered across the room to the mirror, 
and gazed upon its placid surface. It was no longer placid 
while she gazed. What a convulsion prompted each muscle 
of her face ! The dilation of those orbs, how could that be 
subdued ? Yet it must be done. 

“Thy hand is upon me now! — God be merciful!” she 
exclaimed, once more sinking to her knees. 

“ Bitterly now do I feel how much I have offended. Had 
these five years been passed in prayers of penitence rather 
than of pride — in prayers for grace rather than of ven- 
geance — it had not been hard to pray now. Thy hand had 
not been so heavy ! Spare me. Father. Let this trial be 
light. Let me recover strength — give me composure for 
this fearful meeting !” 

She started to her feet. She heard a movement in her 
r -Other’s apartment. That restless old lady, apprized of 


THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 235 

the arrival of the expected visiters, was preparing to make 
her appearance below. It was necessary that she should 
be foTewarned, else she might endanger everything. With 
this new fear, she acquired strength. She hurried to her 
^iOtlier’s apartment, and found her at the threshold. The 
impatient old lady, agog with all the curiosity of age, was 
preparing to descend the stairs. 

“ Come back with me an instant,” said the daughter, as 
she passed into the chamber. 

“ What’s the matter witli you, Margaret ? You look as 
if your old fits were returning !” 

‘‘It is likely : there is occasion for them. Know you 
who is below ?” 

“ To be sure I do. Colonel Sharpe and Mr. Barnabas. 
Who but them ?” 

“ Alfred Stevens is below ! Colonel Sharpe and Alfred 
Stevens are the same person !” 

“ You don’t say so ! Lord, if Beauchampe only knew 1” 
exclaimed the old lady, in accents of terror. 

“ And if you rush down as you are, he will know!” said 
the daughter sternly. “ For this purpose I came to pre*J 
pare you. You must take time and compose yourself. It 
is no easy task for either of us, mother, but it must be done. 
You do not know, for I have not thought it worth while to 
tell you, that, before I consented to marry Beauchampe, I 
told him all — I kept no secrets from him.” 

“ You didn’t, sure, Margaret ?” 

‘‘ As I live, I did !” 

“ But that was very foolish, Margaret.” 

“No! — it was right — it was necessary. Nothing less 
could have justified me ; nothing less could have given me 
safety.” 

“ I don’t see — I think ’twas very foolish.” 

“ Be it so, mother — it is done ; and I must tell you more, 
the better to make you feel the necessity of keeping your 
countenance. Before I became the wife of Beauchampe, he 


236 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


swore to revenge my wrong. He pledged himself before 
Heaven to slay my betrayer whenever they should meet. 
They have met — they are below together!” 

“ Lord have mercy, what a madness was this !” cried the 
old lady, with uplifted hands, and sinking into a chab. Her 
anxiety to got below was effectually quieted. 

“ It was no madness to declare the truth,” said the daugh- 
ter gloomily ; “ perhaps it was not even a madness to de- 
mand such a pledge.” 

“ And you’re going to tell Beauchampe that his intimate 
friend and Alfred Stevens are the same — you’re going to 
have blood shed in the house ?” 

“No, not if I can help it! When I swore Beauchampe 
to slay this villain, I was not the w’oman that I am now. I 
knew not then my husband’s worth. I did not then do jus- 
tice to his love, which was honorable. My purpose now is 
to keep this secret from him, if you do not betray it, and if 
the criminal himself can have the prudence to say nothing. 
From his honor, were that my only security, I should have 
no hope. I feel that he would manifest no forbearance, 
were he not restrained by the wholesome fear of vengeance. 
Even in this respect I have my doubts. There is sometimes 
such a recklessness in villany, that it grows rash in spite 
of caution. I must only hope and pray for the best. Ah ! 
could I pray !” 

Once more did the unhappy woman sink upon her knees. 
She was now more composed. Her feelings had become 
fixed. The necessity of concentrating her strength, and 
composing her countenance, for the approaching trial, was 
sufficiently strong to bring about, to a certain extent, the 
desired results ; and the previous necessity of restraining 
her mother, or at least of preparing her for a meeting, which 
otherwise might have provoked a very suspicious show of 
feeling or excitement, had greatly helped to increase her 
own fortitude and confirm her will. But, from prayer, she 
got no strength. Still she could not pray. The emptj 


THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. *^3 f 

words came from the lips only. The soul was still wandei • 
ing elsewhere — still striving, struggling ii: a moral chaos, 
where, if all was neither void nor formless, all was dark, 
indistinct, and threatening. 

But little time was suffered even for this effort. The 
voices from below became louder. Laughter, and occasion- 
ally the words and topics of conversation, reached their 
ears. That Alfred Stevens should laugh at such a momentj 
while she struggled in the throes of mortal apprehension on 
account of him, served to strengthen her pride, and renew 
and warm her sense of hostility. What a pang it was to 
hear, distinctly uttered by his lips, an inquiry, addressed 
to her husband, on the subject of his wife ! What feelings 
of pain and apprehension were awakened in her bosom by 
the simple sounds — 

“ But where’s your wife, Beauchampe ? we must see her, 
you know. You forget the commission which we bear — 
the authority conferred by the club. Unless we approve, 
you know — ” 

What more was said escaped her, but a few moments 
more elapsed when Beauchampe was heard ascending the 
stairs. She rose from where she knelt, and, bracing her- 
self to the utmost, she advanced and met him at the head 
of the stairs. 

“ Come,” said he, “ and show yourself. My friends won- 
der at your absence. They inquire for you. Where's your 
mother ?” 

“ I will inform her, and she will probably follow me 
down.” 

ct Very good : come as soon as possible, for we must get 
them supper. They have had none.” 

He returned to his guests, and she to her chamber. Her 
mother was weeping. 

“ If you do not feel strong enough, mother, to face these 
visiters to-night, do not come down. I will see to giving 
them supper. At all events, remember how much depends 


238 


BEiUCHAMPE. 


on your firmness. I feel now that I shall be strong 
enough ; but I tremble when I think of yen. Perhaps you 
had better not be seen at all. I can plead indisposition 
for you while they remain, which I suppose will only be 
tc-night.” 

The mother was undecided what to do. She could only 
articulate the usual lamentation of imbecility, that things 
were as tliey were. 

“It was so foolish to tell him anything!” 

The daughter looked at her in silence and sorrow. But 
the remark rather lifted her forehead. It was, indeed, with 
the pride of a high and honorable soul that she exulted in 
the consciousness that she had revealed the truth — that she 
had concealed nothing of her cruel secret from the husband 
who had the right to know. With this strengthening con- 
viction that, if the worst came, she at least had no conceal- 
ments which could do her harm, she descended to the fear- 
ful encounter. 

Never was the rigid purpose of a severe will, in circum- 
stances most trying, impressed upon any nature with more 
inflexibility than upon hers. Every nerve and sensibility 
was corded up to the fullest tension. She felt that she 
might fall in sudden convulsion — that the ligatures which 
her will had put upon brain and impulse might occasion 
apoplexy ; but she felt, at the same time, that every muscle 
would do its duty — that her step should not falter — that 
her eye should not shrink — that no emotion of face, no 
agitation of frame, should effect the development of her fear- 
ful secret, or rouse the suspicions of her husband that there 
was a secret. 

She achieved her purpose 1 She entered the apartment 
with the easy dignity of one wholly unconscious of wrong, 
or of any of those feelings which denote the memory of 
wrong. But she did not succeed, nor did she try, to impart 
to her countenance and manner the appearance of indifier- 
ence. On the contrary, the solemnity of her looks amount 


THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 


ed to intensity. She could not divest her face of the ten- 
sion which she felt. The tremendous earnestness of the 
encounter — the awful seriousness of that meeting on which 
so much depended — if not clearly expressed on her coun- 
tenance, left there at least the language of an impressive- 
ness which had its effect upon the company. 

Beauchampe was aware of enough tc be at no loss to 
account for the grav^e severity of her aspect. Mr. Barna- 
bas, without knowing anytliing, at least felt the presence 
of much and solemn character in the eyes that met his own. 
As for Colonel Sharpe, he was too much surprised at meet- 
ing po unexpectedly with the woman he had wronged, to 
be at all observant of the particular feelings which her fea- 
turco seemed to express. 

He started at her entrance. Looking, just then, at his 
wife, Beauchampe failed to note the movement of his guest. 
Sharpe started, his face became suddenly pale, then red ; 
and his eyes involuntarily turned to Beauchampe, as if in 
doubt and inquiry. His conge^ if he made any, was the 
result of habit only. Never was guilty spirit more suddenly 
confounded, though perhaps never could guilty spirit more 
rapidly recover from his consternation. In ten minutes 
after. Colonel Sharpe, alias Alfred Stevens, was as talkative 
as ever — as if he had no mortifications to apprehend, no 
conscience to quiet : but, when the eyes of Beauchampe and 
Barnabas were averted, his might be seen to wander to the 
spot where sat the woman he had wronged ! 

What was the expression in that glance ? What was the 
secret thought in the dishonorable mind of the criminal ? 
Though momentary only, that glance was full of intelli- 
gence: but the recognition which it conveyed found no 
response from hers; though — not unfrequently, at such 
moments — as if there were some fascination in his eyes, 
they encountered those of the person whom they sought, 
keenly fixed upon them ! 


24C 


rEAUCHAMr<&. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE BITTER PARLE. 

And thus, after five long years of separation — years of 
triumph on the one hand, years of degradation and despera- 
tion on tlie other — they met, the destroyer and his victim. 
The serpent had once more penetrated into the garden. Its 
flowers had been renewed. Its Eden, for a brief moment, 
appeared to be restored. If the sunshine was of a subdued 
and mellowed character, it was still sunshine ! Alas for 
the woman ! she gazed upon lier destroyer, and felt that 
the whole fabric of her peace was once more in peril. She 
saw before her the same base spirit which liad so profli- 
gately triumphed in her overthrow. She felt, from a single 
glance, that he had undergone no change. There was an 
expression in his look, when their eyes encountered, which 
annoyed her with the familiarity of its recognition. She 
turned from it with disgust. 

“At all events,” she thought, “ he will keep his secret ; 
he will not willingly incur the anger of a husband. A day 
will free us from his presence, and the danger ^ill then 
pass for ever!” 

Filled with doubts, racked with apprehension, but still 
succored by this hope, the woman yet performed the duties 
of the household with a stern resoluteness that was admi- 
rable. No external tokens of her agitation were to be 
seen. Her movements were methodical, and free from all 
precipitation. Her voice, though the tones were low, wag 


THE BITTER PARLE. 


241 


clear, distinct, and she spoke simply to the purpose. Even 
her enemy felt, or rather exercised, a far less degree of 
coolness and composure. His voice sometimes faltered as 
he gazed upon, and addressed her ; and there was, at mo 
ments, a manifest effort at ease and playfulness, which the 
ready sense of Beauchampe himself did not fail to discrimi- 
nate. It was something of a startling coincidence that, after 
figliting with William Calvert about Margaret Cooper, he 
sliould, the A'ery next night, be the favored guest of her 
husband ! Colonel Sharpe brooded over the fact with some 
superstitious misgivings ; but the progress of supper soon 
made him forgetful of his fears, if he had any ; and, before 
the evening was far advanced, he had recovered very much 
of his old composure. 

When the supper-things were removed, Mr. Barnabas 
brought up the subject of horses, in order, as it would seem, 
to advert to the condition of his favorite roan, which had 
struck lame that evening on their way from Bowling-Green. 
The question was a serious one whether he suffered from 
snag, or nail, or pebble ; and the worthy owner concluded 
his speculations by declaring his wish, at an early moment, 
to subject the animal to fitting inspection. Beauchampe 
rose to attend him to the stables. 

“ Will you go, colonel ?” asked Mr. Barnabas. 

“ Surely not,” was the reply. “ My taste does not lie 
that way. I will remain with Mrs. Beauchampe, in the 
hope to perfect our acquaintance.” 

The blood rose in the brain of the person spoken of ; her 
heart strove to suppress the rising feeling of indignation. 
.A.t first, her impulse was to rise and leave the room. But 
me next moment determined her otherwise. A single re- 
jection convinced her that there would be no good policy 
in such a movement — that it would be equivalent to a con- 
fession of weakness, which she did not feel ; and she was 
resolved that her feelings of aversion should not give her 
enemy such an advantage over her. 


242 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ He must be met, at one time or other ; and perhaps the 
sooner the issue is over, the better.” 

This reflection passed through her mind in very few sec- 
ouds. They were now alone together. The lantern, which 
the servant carried before Beauchampe and Mr. Barnabas, 
was already flickering faintly at a distance as seen through 
the window-pane beside her, when Colonel Sharpe started 
from his seat and approached her. 

“ Can it be that I again see you, Margaret ?” he ex- 
claimed; “have my prayers been granted — am I again 
blessed with a meeting with one so dearly loved, so long 
and bitterly lamented ?” 

“You see the wife of Orville Beauchampe, Colonel 
Sharpe !” was the expressive reply. 

“ Nay, Margaret, it is my misfortune that you are his 
wife, or the wife of any man but one. Hear me — for I 
perceive that you think that I have wronged you — ” 

“ Think, sir^ think ! — but no more of this !” was her in- 
dignant answer, as she rose from her chair and prepared to 
leave the room ; “ it can matter little to you, sir, what my 
thoughts of your conduct and character may be, as it is 
now small matter to me what they ever have been. It is 
enough for you to know that you are the guest of my hus- 
band ; and that, in his ignorance of your crime, lies your 
only safety. A word from me, sir, brings down his ven- 
geance upon your head ! You yourself best know whether 
that is to be feared or not.” 

“ But you will not speak that word, Margaret !” 

“ Will I not ?” she exclaimed, while a fiery scorn seemed 
to gather in her eyes. 

“No, Margaret, no! I am sure you can not. For 'he 
sake of the past, you will not.” 

“ Be not so sure of tliat ! It is for the sake of the futu '0 
that I am silent. Were it for the past only, Alfred Stevens, 
not only should my lips speak, but my hands act. I should 
not ask of him to avenge me : my own arm should right mv 


THE BITTER PARLE. 


243 


wrong ; my own arm should, even now, be uplifted in the 
work of vengeance, and you should never leave this house 
alive !” 

lie smiled as he replied : — 

“ I know you better, Margaret. If you ever loved — ” 

“Stay, sir — stay, Alfred Stevens — if you would not 
have me so madden as to prove to you how little you have 
known or can know of me ! Do not speak to me in such 
language. Beware — for your own sake, for my sake, I 
implore you to forbear 

“For your sake, Margaret — anything for your sake. 
But be not hasty in your judgment. You wrong me — on 
my soul you do ! If you knew the cruel necessity that kept 
me from you — ” 

“0 false!” she exclaimed — “false, and no less foolish 
than false ! Do not hope to deceive me by your base in- 
ventions. I heard all — know all ! I know that I was tlie 
credulous victim of your subtle arts — that my conquest and 
overtlirow was the subject of your dishonest boast.” 

“ It is false, Margaret ! The villain lied who told you 
this.” 

“No, Alfred Stevens, no! — he spoke the truth. The 
veracity of the two llinkleys was never questioned. But 
your own acts confirmed the story. Why did you not keep 
your promise ? why did you fly ? Where have you been for 
five bitter years, in which I was the miserable mock of those 
whom I once looked on with contempt — the desperate, the 
fearful wretch — on the verge of a madness which, half the 
time, kept the weapons of death within my grasp — which 
I only did not use upon myself, because there was still a 
hope that I should meet with you !” 

“ I am here now, Margaret. If my death be necessary 
to your peace, command it. I confess that I owe you 
atonement, though I am less guilty than you think. Take 
my life, if that will suffice ; I ofi'er no entreaty ; I utter no 
cDinplaint.” 


244 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ One little month go, Alfred Stevens, and you had not 
needed to make this offer — you had not made it a second 
time in vain. But that time has changed me. Go — live ! 
Leave this house with the morning’s sun, and forget that 
you have ever known me! Forget, if possible, that you 
know my husband 1 It is for his sake that I spare you — 
for his sake I entreat your silence of the past — your utter 
forgetfulness of him and me.” 

For his sake, Margaret !” he answered with an incred- 
ulous smile while offering to take her hand. She repulsed 
him. 

“ No, no, Margaret ! it is impossible that this young man 
can be anything to you. You can not be so forgetful of 
those dear moments, of that first passion, consecrated as it 
was by those stolen joys — ” 

“Remind me not — man or devil! — remind me not. 
Remind me not of your crime — remind mo not of my sworn 
vengeance — sworn, day by day, every day of bitterness and 
death which I have endured since those dark and damning 
hours. Hark ye, Alfred Stevens!” — her voice here sud- 
denly lowered almost to a whisper — “ hark ye, you are not 
a wise man ! You arc tempting your fate. You are in the 
very den of danger. I tell you that I spare your life, though 
the weapon is shotted — though the knife is whetted. I 
spare your life, simply, on condition that you depart. Lin- 
ger longer than is absolutely needful — vex me longer with 
these insolent suggestions — and you wake into fury the 
slumbering hatred of my soul, which, for five years, has 
known no moment’s sleep till now. See! — the light re- 
turns — a word — a single woi d more by way of warning — 
depart by the dawn to-morrow. Linger longer, and you 
may never depart again !” 

“ Why, Margaret, this is downright madness !” 

“ So it is ; and I am mad, and can not be otherwise than 
mad, while you remain here. Do you not fear that my 
madness will turn upon and rend you.” 


THE BITTER PARLE. 


•245 


“ No !” he said quietly, but earnestly and in subdued 
tones, for the light was now rapidly approaching. “ No, 
Margaret, for I can not believe in such sudden changes from 
love to hate. Besides, if it were true, of what profit would 
it be to take this vengeance ? It would forfeit all the peace 
and happiness which you now enjoy !” 

“ Do I not know it ? Is not this what I would tell you ? 
Do I not entreat you to spare me, for this very reason ? 
To rend and destroy you might gratify my vengeance, but 
it would overtlirow the peace of others who have become 
dear to me. I ask you to spare them — to spare me — not 
xo provoke me to that desperation which will make me for- 
getful of everything except the wrong I have suffered at 
your hand and the hate I bear you.” 

“ But how do I this, Margaret ?” 

“ Your presence does it.” 

“ I can not think you hate me.” 

“ Ha ! indeed ! you can not ? Do not, I pray you, trust 
to that. You deceive yourself. You do ! Leave this 
house with the morrow. Break off your intimacy with 
Beauchampe. Forget me ! Look not at me ! Provoke 
me not with your glance — still less with your accents ; for, 
believe me, Alfred Stevens, I have had but a single thought 
since the day of my dishonor — but a single prayer — and 
that was for the moment and the opportunity when I might 
wash my hands in your blood. Your looks, your words, 
revive the feeling within me. Even now' I feel the thirst to 
slay you arising in my soul. I do not speak to threaten. 
To speak, at all, I must speak this language. I obey the 
feeling whatever it may be. Let me then implore you, be 
warned while there is time. Another day, and I may not 
be able to command myself — I can scarcely do so now ; and 
in doing so, the effort is not made in your behalf — not even 
in my own. It is for him — for Beauchampe only. He 
comes — be warned — beware !” 

The approach of the light and the sounds of voices from 


246 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


without, produced their natural effect. They warned the 
offender much more effectually than even the exhortation 
of the woman, stern, vehement, as it was. Nay, he did not 
believe in the sincerity of her speech. His vanity forbade 
that. He could not easily persuade himself of the revolu- 
tion which she alleged her mind to have undergone, in his 
case, from love to hate ; and was not the man to attach any 
very great degree of faith to asseverations of such hostility 
at any time on the part of a creature usually so unstable 
and capricious as he deemed woman to be. It is certain 
that what she said had failed to affect him as it was meant 
to have done. The unhappy woman saw that with an in- 
creased feeling of care and apprehension. She beheld it 
in the leer of confident assurance which he still continued 
to bestow upon her even when the feet of Beauchampe were 
upon the threshold ; and felt it in the half-whispered words 
of hope and entreaty with which the criminal closed the 
conference between them at the same moment. 

Truly bitter was that cup to her at this moment — fear- 
ful and bitter ! Involuntarily she clasped her hands, with 
the action of entreaty, while her eyes once more riveted 
themselves upon him. A meaning smile, which reawakened 
all her indignation, answered her, and then the muscles of 
both were required to be composed and inexpressive, as the 
husband once me re stood between them. 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 


247 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER PATE. 

The necessity of the case brought a tolerable composure 
to the countenances of both the parties as Beauchampe and 
his companion re-entered the room. An instant after, the 
wife left it and hurried up to her chamber. Beauchampe’s 
eye followed her movements curiously. In truth, knowing 
the dread and aversion which she had avowed, at mingling 
again in society, he was anxious to ascertain how she had 
borne herself in the interview with his friend. 

“ Truly, Beauchampe,’’ said the latter, as if in answer to 
his thoughts, “ your wife is a very splendid woman.” 

“ Ah ! do you like her ? Did she converse freely with 
you ? She speaks well, but does not like society much.” 

“ Very — she has a fine majestic mind. Talks admirably 
well. Did you meet with her here V^ 

“ Yes,” said the other, though with some hesitation. 
“ This farm upon which we live is her mother’s.” 

“ Her mother ! ah ! what was her maiden-name, Beau- 
champe ? I think you mentioned it in your letter, but it es- 
capes me now ?” 

“ Cooke : Miss Anna Cooke.” 

“Cooke, Cooke — I wonder if she is of the Cookes of 
Sunbury ? I used to know that family.” 

“I think — I believe not — I am not sure, however. I 
really can not say.” 

The reply of Beauchampe was made with some trcpida- 


248 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


tion. The inquiry of Sharpe, which had been urged very 
gravely, aroused the only half-latent consciousness of the 
husband, who began to feel the awkwardness of answering 
any more particular questions. Sharpe did not perceive 
the anxiety of Beauchampe — he was himself too much ab- 
sorbed in the subject of which he spoke. 

“ Your wife is certainly a very splendid woman in per 
son, Beauchampe ; and her mind appears to be original and 
well informed. But she seems melancholy, Beauchampe ; 
quite too much so, for a newly-made bride. Eh ! what can 
be the matter ?” 

“ She has had losses — misfortunes — her mother, too, is 
an invalid, and she has been compelled to be a watcher for 
some time past.” 

“ And how long have they been neighbors to your mother ? 
If I recollect, you never spoke of them before V” 

“ You forget, I have been absent from home some years,” 
replied Beauchampe evasively. 

True ; I suppose they have come into the neighborhood 
within that time ? You did not know your wife in boyhood, 
did you ?” 

“ No — I did not. I never saw her till my present visit.” 

“ I thought not ! Such a woman is not to be passed over 
with indifference. Her person must attract — and her in- 
tellect must secure and fascinate. I should say no man 
was ever more fortunate in his choice. What say you, Bar- 
nabas ? We must give Beauchampe a certificate ?” 

“ I suppose so, if you say so ; but I can only judge of 
Mrs. Beauchampe by appearances. I have had none of the 
chat. I agree with you tliat she is a splendid woman to 
the eye, and will take your judgment for the rest.” 

“You will be safe in doing so. But how do you find 
your horse ?” 

“ Regularly lame. I’m afraid the cursed brute’s snagged 
or has a nail in his foot. The quick’s touched somehow, for 
he won’t lay the foot to the ground.” 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER PATE. 


249 


“ That’s bad ! What have you done ?” 

“ Nothing! We can see to do nothing to-night ; but by 
the peep of day I must be at him. I must liave your help, 
Beauchampe — with your soap and turpentine, and what- 
ever else may be good for such a case ?” 

Beauchampe answered with readiness, perhaps rather 
pleased than otherwise that the subject should be changed. 

‘‘ With your permission, then, I will leave you,” said 
Barnabas, “ and get my sleep while I may. Let your boy 
waken me at dawn, if you please, for I am really anxious 
about the animal. He is a favorite — a nag among a thou- 
sand.” 

‘‘ As every man’s nag is,” said Sharpe. “ You can al- 
ways tell a born egotist. He has always the best horse 
and the best gun, the best ox and the best ass, of any man 
in the country. He really believes it. But ask Barnabas 
about the best wife, and ten to one he says nothing of his 
own. He has no boasts, strange to say, about his own rib 
— bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh.” 

“ You are cutting quite too close,” said Barnabas. 

“ As near to the quick, in your case, as in that of your 
nag.” 

“ Almost ! but the quick in that region is getting callous.” 

“ High time, Barnabas; it has been subject to sufficient 
Induration.” 

“ At all events, I have no dread of your knife ; its edge 
is quite too blunt to do much hurt. Good-night : try it on 
Beauchampe. A young man and a young wife — I have 
very little doubt you can find the quick in him with a little 
probing.” 

The quick in Beauchampe’s case had already been found. 
Good Mr. Barnabas little knew on what delicate ground he 
was trespassing. 

“ A good fellow, that Barnabas,” said Sharpe, “ but a 
dull one. He really fancies, now, that his nag is a crea- 
ture of great blood and bottom ; and a more sorry jade 

11 ^ 


250 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


never paddled to a country muster-ground. He will scarcely 
sleep to-night, with meditating upon the embrocations, the 
fomentations, the fumigations, and whatever else may be 
necessary. But a truce to this, Beauchampe. I have a 
better subject. Seriously, my dear boy, I have never been 
more pleasantly surprised than in meeting with your wife. 
Really, she is remarkably beautiful ; and, though she is 
evidently shy of strangers, yet, as you know I have the art 
of bringing women out, I may boast of my ability to say 
what stuff she is made of. She speaks with singular force 
and elegance. I have never met with equal eloquence in 
any woman but one.’’ 

“ And who is she ?” 

“ Nay, I can not tell you that. It is years since I knew 
her, and she is no longer the same being : but your wife 
very much reminds me of her.” 

“ Was she as beautiful as Anna?” 

“Very near. She was something younger than your 
(vife — a slight difference — a few years only; but the ad- 
vantage, if this were any, is compensated by the superior 
dignity and the lofty character of yours. She I allude to 
— but it matters not now. Enough that your wife brings 
her to my mind as vividly as if the real, living presence 
were before me, whom I once knew and admired, yeai-s 
ago.” 

Thus, with a singular audacity, did Colonel Sharpe dally 
with this dangerous subject. He did not this perversely — 
with wilful premeditation. It seemed as if he could not 
well avoid it. Evil thoughts have in them that faculty of 
perversely impelling the mind and tongue which is pos- 
sessed by intoxicating liquors. At moments, the wily as- 
sassin strove to avoid the subject, but he returned to it 
again almost the instant after, even as one who recoils sud- 
denly from the edge of some unexpected precipice, again 
and again advances, once more to gaze, with fascinated 
vision, down into its dim and perilous depths. 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 251 

A like fascination did this subject possess over the mind 
of Beauchampe. The feeling of confidence, amounting to 
defiance, which he expressed to his wife, before their guests 
had arrived, and whenever the two liad spoken of going 
into the world, no longer seemed to sustain him. The mo- 
ment that a stranger’s lip spoke her name, and those inqui- 
ries were made, wliich are natural enough in such cases 
from the lips of friends, about the connections and history 
of the woman he had married, then did Beauchampe, for 
the first time, perceive the painful meshes of deception into 
which the unfortunate events in his wife’s life would neces- 
sarily involve his utterance. Yet still, with the restlessness 
of discontent, did he himself incline his ear to the smallest 
reference which his companion made to this subject, ilis 
pride was excited to hear her praises, and the rather bare- 
faced and bald compliments which had been paid to her 
intellect and beauty were dear to him as the lover and the 
worshipper of both. If love be timid, of itself, in the ut- 
terance of eulogiurn upon the beauties which it admires, it 
is equally certain that no subject, from the lips of another, 
can be more really grateful to its ear. It was perhaps this 
sort of pleasure which Beauchampe derived from the sulv 
ject, and which made him incline to it whenever his com- 
panion employed it. 

Still, in the language of Mr. Barnabas, there was an oc- 
casional touching of the quick in what Sharpe said, at mo- 
ments, under which his sensibilities winced. It was, there- 
fore, with a mixed or rather divided feeling, neither of pain 
nor pleasure, or a compounded one of both, that Beauchampe 
conducted his friend to the chamber which was assigned 
liini — returning afterward to his own, in a state of mind 
highly excited, almost feverish — dissatisfied with himself. 
Ids friend — with every person but his wife. With her he 
had no cause of quarrel. No doubt of her, no sense of 
jealousy, no regret, no apprehension, disturbed that devoted 
passion which made him resolve, under all circumstances. 


BKAUCHAMPE. 


to link her with his life. If anything, the effect of the 
evening’s interview was to make him look with eyes of 
greater favor upon her taste for privacy, and the life of 
ceclusion in w'hich, up to this period, his moments of supe- 
rior happiness had been known. But this subject docs not 
concern us now. 

Colonel Sharpe was shown into the same chamber which 
had been allotted to Mr. Barnabas. In our frontier country, 
It need scarcely be stated, that the selfishness which insists 
upon chamber and bed to itself is apt to be practically re- 
buked in a manner the most decided. In some parts, two 
in a bed would be thought quite a liberal arrangement ; and 
may well be thought so, when it is known that four or five 
is not an uncommon number — the fifth man being occasion- 
ally placed crosswise, in the manner of a raft-tie, rather, it 
would seem, to keep the rest from falling out, than with the 
view to making him unnecessarily comfortable. 

Messrs. Sharpe and Barnabas were too well accustomed 
to the condition of country-life to make any scruple about 
that arrangement which placed them in the same apartment 
and couch ; and, under existing circumstances, the former 
was rather pleased with it than otherwise. He had scarce- 
ly entered the room before he carefully fastened the door ; 
listened for the retreating steps of Beauchampe, till they 
were finally lost ; and, while Barnabas was wondering at, 
and vainly endeavoring to divine the reason of this mystery, 
he approached the bed where the other lay, and seated 
himself upon it. 

“ You are not asleep, Barnabas ?” he said in a whisper. 

“ No,” replied the other, with tones made rather husky 
by a sudden tremulousness of the nerves. “ No ! what’s 
the matter ?” 

“Matter enough — the strangest matter in the world! 
Would you believe it, that Margaret Cooper — the girl 
whose seduction was charged upon me by Calvert — and 
Beauchampe’s wife are one and the same person 1” 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 


253 


“ The devil they are !” exclaimed the other, in his sur- 
prise rising to a sitting posture in the bed. 

“ True as gospel !” 

“ Can’t be possible, Sharpe !” 

“ Possible, and true. They are the same. I have spoken 
with her as Margaret Cooper ; the recognition is complete 
on both sides. We talked of nothing else while you and 
Beauchampe were at the stables.” 

“ Great God ! how awkward ! Wliat’s to be done ?” 

“ Awkward ? where’s the awkwardness ? I see nothing 
awkward about it. On the contrary, I regard this meeting 
as devilish fortunate. I was never half satisfied to lose her 
as I did, and to find her again is like finding one’s treasure 
when he had given up the hope of it for ever.” 

“ But what do you mean, Sharpe ? Are you really in- 
sensible to the danger ?” 

“ What danger ?” 

“ Why, that she’ll blow you to her husband !” 

“ What wife would do that, d’ye think ? No, no, Bar- 
nabas ; she’s no such fool ! Of course, she kept her secret 
when she married him. She’ll scarcely blab it now.” 

“ But won’t this affair of Calvert get to his ears ?” 

“ What if it does ? It can do no mischief. Had you 
listened to my examination of Beauchampe — but you’re a 
dull fellow, Barnabas ! Didn’t you hear me ask what his 
wife’s maiden name was? — maiden name, indeed! — Did 
you hear the answer ?” 

“Yes — he said the name was Cooke.” 

“To be sure he did — Ann, or Anna Cooke — his Anna! 
Ha! ha! ha! J/wAnna!” 

“ But don’t laugh so loud, Sharpe ; they’ll hear you and 
suspect.” 

“ Pshaw, you’re timid as a hare in December. Don’t you 
see that she has imposed upon him a false name. Let him 
hear till doomsday of Margaret Cooper and myself, and it 
brings him not a jol nighcr to the truth. But, of course. 


254 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


you must tell him of my affair with Calvert, and give the 
politicah version. He can scarce hear any other version 
from any other source : political hacks will scarcely ever 
deal in truth when a lie may be had as easily, and can serve 
their turn as well. We are representatives of our several 
parties and principles, you know ; treating each other 
roughly — too rouglily — without gloves, and, as usual in 
such cases, exchanging shots by way of concluding an ill- 
adjusted argument. There’s no danger of anything, but 
what we please, meeting Beauchampe’s ears about this affair 
with Calvert.” 

“ But, by Jove, Sharpe, this is a d d ticklish situation 

to be in. I’d rather you were not here in his house. I’d 
rather be elsewhere myself.” 

“ You are certainly the most timid mortal. Will you set 
off to-morrow with your lame horse ?” 

‘‘ If he can hobble at all, I will, by Jove! I don’t like 
the situation we’re in at all.” 

“ And by Yenus, friend Barnabas, if such be your deter- 
mination, you set off alone. I’m not going to give up my 
treasure the moment I find it, for any Beauchampe or Bar- 
nabas of you all. No — no! my most excellent, but most 
apprehensive friend — having seen her, how can you think 
it ? But you have neither eyes nor passion. By Heavens, 
Barnabas, I am all in a convulsion of joy ! I see her before 
me now — those dilating eyes, wild, bright, almost fierce 
in their brightness, like tliose of an eagle ; those lips, that 
brow, and that full and heaving bosom, whose sweets — ” 

“ Hush ! you are mad ; if you must feel these raptures, 
Sharpe, for God’s sake say nothing about them. They will 
hear you in the adjoining room.” 

“ No — no ! it is your silly fears, Barnabas. I am speak- 
ing in a whisper.” 

“D — n such whispers, say I. They can be heard by 
keen ears half a mile. But you say you spoke with her — 
what did she say ? Did she abuse you ?” 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 


“ No ! indeed I” 

“ Is it possible — the b — ” 

“Hush! hush! You do not understand her. She 
not abuse me, for of Billingsgate she knows nothing. I'cu 
must not think of her as of your ordinary town wench ;.3. 
She is too proud for any such proceeding. She threateneL 
me.” 

“ Ah ! How ?” 

“ With her own vengeance and that of her husband. l oid 
me she had the weapon for me ready sharpened, and the 
pistol shotted, and had kept them ready for years.” 

“ The Tartar ! and what did you say ?” 

“ Laughed, of course ; and, but for the coming of the 
lantern and the husband, I should have silenced her threats 
by stopping her mouth with kisses.” 

“ You’re a dare-devil, Sharpe, and you’ll have your throat 
cut some day by some husband or other.” 

“ Your whiskers will be gray enough before that time 
comes. You know husbands quite as little as you know 
wives. Now, as soon as Margaret Cooper began to threaten 
me, I knew I was safe.” 

“ Devilish strange sort of security that.” 

“ True and certain, nevertheless. People who threaten 
much seldom perform. But I have even better security than 
this.” 

“ What’s that?” 

“ She loves me.” 

“ What ! you think so still, do you ? You’re a conceited 
fellow.” 

“ I know it ! That first passion, Barnabas, is the longest 
lived. You can not expel it. It holds on, it lasts longer 
than youth. It is the chief memory of youth. It recalls 
youth, revives it, and revives all the joys which came with 
youth — the bloom, the freshness and the fragrance. Do 
you think that Margaret Cooper can forget that it was my 
lips that first gave birth to the passion of love within her 


BEAUCIIAMPE. 


bosom — that first awakened its glow, and taught her — 
what before she never knew — that there were joys still 
left to earth, which could yet restore all the fabled bliss of 
Eden? Not easily, mon ami I No, Barnabas — the man 
who has once taught a woman how to love, may be, if he 
pleases, the perpetual master of her fate. She can not 
help but love him — she must obey — and none but a fool or 
a madman can forfeit the allegiance which her heart will 
always be ready to pay to his.’^. 

“ I don’t know, Sharpe — you always talk these things 
well ; but I can’t help thinking tliat there’s danger. There’s 
something in this woman’s looks very different from the or- 
iinary run of women.” 

“ She is different, so far as superiority makes her differ- 
ent, but the same nature is hers which belongs to all. Love 
is the fate that makes or unmakes the whole world of 
woman.” 

“ Maybe so ; but this woman seems as proud, and cold, 
rjid stately — ” 

“ Masks, my boy — glorious masks, that help to conceal 
as much fire and passion, and tumultuous love, as ever 
flamed in any woman’s breast.” 

“ She awes me with her looks, and if she threatened you, 
Sharpe, she seems to me the very woman to keep her 
threats.” 

“ If she had not threatened me, Barnabas, I should have 
probably set out to-night.” 

“ It will be a w'ise step to do so in the morning.” 

“ No — no ! my dear fellow. Neither you nor I go in the 
morning. Fortune favors me 1 She has thrown in my way 
the only treasure whicli I did not willingly throw aside my- 
self, and which I have so long sighed, but in vain, to re- 
cover. Shall I now refuse to pick it up and enshrine it in 
my breast once more? No — no! Barnabas! I am no 
stoic — I am no such profligate insensible !” 

“ Why, you don’t mean — ” 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER PATE. 


The inquiry was conveyed, and the sentence finished by 
a look. 

“ Do I not ! Call me slave, ass, dotard — anything that 
can express contempt — if I do not. And hark ye, Barna- 
bas, you must help me.^’ 

“ I help you ? ril be d d if I do ! What ! to have 

this fellow, Beauchampe, slit my carotid ? Never ! never !” 

“ Pshaw, you are getting cowardly in your old age.’’ 

“ I tell you this fellow, Beauchampe, is a sort of Mohawk 
when he’s roused.” 

“And I tell you, Barnabas, there’s no sort of danger — 
none at least to you. All that you will have to do will be 
to get him out of the way. You wish to ride round the 
country — I do not. You wish to try the birds — nay, he 
can even get up an elk-hunt for you. He knows that I 
have no passion for these things, and it will seem natural 
enough that I should remain at home. Do you take ? At 
the worst, I am the ofi'ender — and the danger will be mine 
only. But there will be no danger. I tell you that Mar- 
garet Cooper has only changed in name. In all other re- 
spects she is the same. There can be no danger if Beau- 
champe chooses to remain blind, and if you will assist me in 
keeping him so.” 

“ 1 don’t half like it, Sharpe.” 

“ Pshaw ! my good fellow, there’s no good reason why 
you should like or dislike. The simple question is, whether, 
in a matter which will not affect you one way or the other, 
you are willing to serve your friend. That is the true and 
only question. You see for yourself that there can be no 
danger to you. I am sure there’s no danger to anybody. 
At all events, be the danger what it may, and take you 
wliat steps you please, I am resolved on mine. Reconcile 
to yourself, as you may, the desertion of your friend, in con- 
sequence of a timidity which has no cause whatever of 
alarm.” 

Sharpe r>se at this moment, kicked off his boots, and 


258 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


prepared to undress. The effect of a strong will upon a 
feeble one was soon obvious. Barnabas hesitated still, 
hemmed and ha’d, dilated once more upon the danger, 
and finally subsided into a mood of the most perfect com- 
pliance with all the requisitions of his friend. They carried 
the discussion still farther into the night, but that is no 
reason why we should trespass longer upon the sleeping 
hours of our I’eaders. 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 


25 ^ 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 

It was no difficult matter, in carrying out the design of 
Sharpe, to send Barnabas abroad the next morning in charge 
of Beauchampe. Sharpe had a convenient headache, and 
declined the excursion ; proposing, very deliberately, to the 
husband, to console himself for his absence in the company 
of the wife. 

The latter was not present when the arrangement was 
made. It took place at the stables, after breakfast, while 
they were engaged in the examination of the injured hoi^so 
of Mr. Barnabas ; and this gentleman, with his cicerone^ set 
forth from the spot, leaving Sharpe, at his own leisure, to 
return to the house. 

Having seen them fairly off, he did so with the delibera- 
tion of one having a settled purpose. For his reappearance, 
alone, Mrs. Beauchampe was entirely unprepared. As he 
entered the room where she was sitting, she rose to leave 
itj though without any symptoms of haste or agitation. He 
placed himself between her and the door, and thus effectu- 
ally prevented her egress. 

She fixed her eye keenly and coldly upon him. 

“ Alfred Stevens,” she said, “ you are trifling with your 
fate.” 

“ Call it not trifling, dear Margaret. You are my fate, 
and I never was more earnest in ifiy life. Do not show 


BEAUCHAilPE. 


J6' 

yourself so inflexible. After so long a separation, such 
coldness is cruel — it is unnatural.” 

“ You say truly,” she replied ; “ I am your fate. I have 
long felt the persuasion that I would be ; and I had pre- 
pared myself for it. Still, I would it were not so. I would 
not have your blood either on mine or the hands of Beau- 
champe. I implored you last night to spare me this neces- 
sity. It is not yet too late. Trifle not with your destiny 
— waste not the moments which are left you. Persevere 
in this course of madness for a day longer, and you are 
doomed! Hear me — believe me! I speak mildly and 
with method. I am speaking to you the convictions of five 
dreary years.” 

The calm, even, almost gentle manner and subdued ac- 
cents of the woman, had the effect of encouragement rather 
than of warning to the vain and self-deceiving roue. He 
was deceived by her bearing. He was not so profound a 
proficient as he fancied himself in the secrets of a wo- 
man’s heart ; and, firmly persuaded of the notion that he 
had expressed to Barnabas, in the conversation of the pre- 
vious night, that women are never so little dangerous as 
when they threaten, he construed all that she said into a 
sort of ruse de guerre^ the more certainly to conceal her 
real weakness. 

“ Come, come, Margaret,” he said, “ it is you that trifle, 
not me. This is no time for crimination and complaint. 
Let me atone to you for the past. Believe me, you wrong 
me if you suppose I meant to desert you. I was the victim 
of circumstances as well as yourself — circumstances which 
I can easily explain to you, and which will certainly excuse 
me for any seeming breach of faith. If you ever loved me, 
dear Margaret, it will not be difficult to believe what I am 
prepared to affirm.” 

“ I do not doubt, sir, that you are prepared to affirm 
anything. But I ask you neither for proofs nor oaths. 
Why should you volunteer them unasked, undcsired ? 1 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 2 Jl 

have no wish to make you add a second perjury to the 
first.’’ 

“ It is no perjury, Margaret ; and you must hear me. I 
claim it for my own justification.” 

“ I will not hear you, sir ! If you are so well assured of 
your justification, let that consciousness content you. I do 
not accuse — I will not reproach you. Go your ways — 
leave me to mine. Surely, surely, Alfred Stevens, it is the 
least boon that I could solicit at your hands, that, having 
trampled me to the dust in shame — having robbed me of 
peace and pride for ever — you should now leave me, with- 
out further persecution, to the homely privacy which the 
rest of my life requires.” 

Do not call it persecution, Margaret. It is love — love 
only! You were my first love — you shall be my last. I 
can not be deceived, dear Margaret, when I assume that I 
was yours. We were destined for each other; and when 
I recall to your memory those happy hours — ” 

“ Recall them at your peril, Alfred Stevens !” she ex- 
claimed vehemently, interrupting him in the speech ; “ recall 
them at your peril ! Too vividly black already are those 
moments in my memory. Spare me — spare yourself ! Be- 
ware ! be warned in season ! 0 man ! man ! blind and des- 

perate, you know not liow nearly you stand on the brink 
of the precipice !” 

He regarded her with eyes full of affected admiration. 

“ At least, Margaret, whatever may be the falling off in 
your love, your genius seems to be as fresh and vigorous as 
ever. There is the same high poetical enthusiasm in your 
words and thoughts, the same burning eloquence — ” 

“ Colonel Sharpe, these things deceive me no longer. I 
.'ceard them now as the disparaging mockeries of a subtle 
and base spirit, meant to beguile and abuse the confidence 
f a frank and unsuspecting one. I am no longer unsus- 
pecting. I nin no longer the blind, vain country-girl, whom 
with ungenerous cunning you could deceive and dishonor 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


2()2 


Shame and grief, which you brought to my dwelling, have 
taught me lessons of truth and humiliation, if not wisdom. 
What you say to me now, in the way of praise, does not 
exhilarate — can not deceive me — and may exasperate! 
Once more I say to you, beware 1” 

‘‘ Ah, Margaret ! are you sure that you do not deceive 
yourself also in what you say ? Allow that you care noth- 
ing for praise — allow that your ear has become insensible 
to the language of admiration — surely it can not be insen- 
sible to that of love.” 

“ Love 1 — yowr love 1” 

“Yes, Margaret — my love. You were not insensible to 
it once.” 

“ I implore you not to remind me !” 

“ Ah, but I must, Margaret. Those moments were too 
precious to me to be forgotten ; the memory of those joys 
too dear. Bitter was the grief which I felt when compelled 
to fly from a region in which I had taught, and been learned 
myself, the first true mysteries which I had ever known of 
love. Think you that I could forget those mysteries — 
those joys ? Oh, never ! nor could you ! On that convic- 
tion my hope is built. Wherever I fled, that memory was 
with me still. It was my present solace under every diffi- 
culty — the sweetening drop in every cup which my lips 
were compelled to drink of bitter and annoyance. Marga- 
ret, I can not think that you did not love me ; I can not 
think that you do not love me htill. It is impossible that 
you should have forgotten what we both once knew of rap- 
ture in those dear moments at Charlemont. And having 
loved me then — having given to me the first youthful emo- 
tions of your bosom — you surely can not love this Beau- 
champe. No, no ! love can not be so suddenly extin 
guished. The altar jnay have been deserted ; the fire, 
untended, it may have grown dim ; but it is the sacred firs 
that can never utterly go out. I can understand, dearest 
Margaret, that it is proper, that, having formed these 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 263 

ties, you should maintain appearances ; but these appear- 
ances need not be fatal to Love, though they may require 
prudence at his hands. Have no fear that my passion will 
offend against prudence. No, dearest Margaret, the kiss 
will be the sweeter now, as it was among the groves of 
Charlemont, from being stolen in secret.- ’ 

She receded a few steps while he was yet speaking, and 
at the close sunk into a chair. He approached her. She 
waved him off in a manner that could not be set at naught. 
A burning flush was upon her face, and the compression of 
her lips denoted the strong working of a settled but stifled 
resolution. She spoke at length : — 

“ I have heard you to the close, Alfred Stevens. I un- 
derstand you. You speak with sufficient boldness now. 
Would to God you had only declared yourself thus boldly 
in the groves of Charlemont ! Could I have seen then, as 
I do now, the tongue of the serpent, and the cloven foot 
of the fiend, I had not been what I am now, nor would you 
have dared to speak these accursed words in my ears !” 

“ Margaret — ” 

“ Stay, sir ! I have heard you patiently. The shame 
which follows guilt required thus much of me. You shall 
now hear me 

“ Will I not, Margaret ? Ah ! though your words con- 
tinue thus bitter, still it is a pleasure to hearken to your 
words.” 

A keen, quick flash of indignation brightened in her 
eyes. 

“ I suppress,” she said, “ I suppress much more than I 
speak. I will confine my speech to that which seems only 
necessary. Once more, then. Colonel Sharpe, I understand 
your meaning. I do not disguise from you the fact that 
nothing more is necessary to a full comprehension of the 
foul purposes which fill your breast. But my reply is ready. 
I can not second them. I hate you with the most bitter 
loathing. I behold you with scorn and detestation — as a 


264 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


creature equally malignant and contemptible — as a villain 
beyond measure — as a coward below contempt — as a trai- 
tor to every noble sentiment of humanity — having the mal- 
ice of the fiend without his nobleness, and with every char- 
acteristic of the snake but his shape! Judge, then, for 
yourself, with what prospect you pursue your purpose with 
me, when such are the feelings I bear you — when such are 
the opinions which I hold you in.” 

“ I can not believe you, Margaret 1” and his mortified 
vanity showed itself in his angry visage. The truth was 
equally strange and terrible to his ears. 

“ God be witness that I speak the truth !” 

“ Margaret, it is you that trifle with your fate. If, in 
truth, you despise my love, you can not surely despise my 
power. It is now my turn to give you warning. I do not 
threaten, but — beware 1” 

She started to her feet, and confronted him with eyes 
that flashed the defiance of a spirit above all apprehension. 

“ Your power 1 your power 1 you give me warning — you 
threaten ! Do I rightly hear you ? Speak out ! I would 
not now misunderstand you ! No, no ! never again must I 
misunderstand you ! What is it you threaten ?” 

“ You do misunderstand me, Margaret : I do not threaten. 
I seek to counsel only — to warn you that I have power ; 
and that there can be no good policy in making me your 
enemy.” 

“ You are mine enemy : you have ever been my worst 
enemy ! Heaven forbid that I should again commit the 
monstrous error of thinking you my friend !” 

“ I am your friend, and would be. Nay, more, in spite 
of this scorn which you express for me, and which I can 
not believe, I love you, Margaret, better, far better, than I 
have ever loved woman.” 

“ You have a wife. Colonel Sharpe ?” 

‘‘ Yes — but — ” 

“ And children ?” 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 2G5 

a Yes—” 

“For their sakes — I do not plead for m)^self, nor for 
you — for their sakes, once more I implore you to forbear 
this pursuit. Persecute me no longer. Do not deceive 
yourself with the vain belief that I have any feeling for you 
but that which I now express. I hate and loathe you — nay, 
am sworn, and again swear, to destroy you, unless you de- 
sist — unless you leave me, and leave me for ever !” 

Her subdued tones again deceived him. He caught her 
hand, as she waved it in the utterance of the last sentence. 
He carried it to his lips ; but, hastily withdrawing it from 
his grasp, she smote him upon the mouth in the next in- 
stant, and, as he darted toward her, threw open the drawer 
of a table which stood within arm’s length of her position, 
and pulling from it a pistol, confronted him with its muzzle. 
He recoiled, more perhaps with surprise than alarm. She 
cocked the weapon, thrust it toward him with all the man- 
ner of one determined upon its use, and with the ease and 
air of one to whom the use of the weapon is familiar. 

There was a pause of a single instant, in which it was 
doubtful whether she would draw the trigger or not — doubt- 
ful even to Sharpe himself. But, with that pause, a more 
human feeling came to her bosom. Her arm sunk — the 
weapon was suffered to fall by her side, and she said, with 
faltering voice : — 

“ Go ! I spare you for the sake of the unhappy woman, 
your wife. Go, sir : it is well for you that I remembered 
her.” 

“ Margaret ! this from you ?” 

“ And from whom with more propriety ? Know, Alfred 
Stevens, that this weapon was prepared for you last night ; 
nay, more, that mine is no inexpert hand in its use. For 
five years, day by day, have I practised this very weapon 
at a mark, thinking of you only as the object upon whom it 
was necessary I should use it. Think you, then, what you 
escape, and return thanks to Heaven that brought to my 

12 


266 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


thought, in the very moment when your life hung upon the 
smallest movement of my finger, the recollection of your 
wife and innocent children! Judge for yourself who has 
most to fear, you or myself.” 

“ Still, Margaret, there is a cause of fear which you do 
not seem to see.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ Not the loss of life, perhaps. That, I can readily im- 
agine, is not likely to be a cause of much fear with a proud, 
strong-minded woman like yourself. But there are sub- 
jects of apprehension infinitely greater than this, particu- 
larly to a woman, a wife, and to you more than all — your 
husband 1” 

“ What of my husband ?” 

“ A single word from me to him, and where is your peace, 
your security ? Ha 1 am I now understood ? Do you not 
see, Margaret, do you not feel, that I have power, with a 
word, more eiffectually to destroy than even pistol-bullet 
could do it ?” 

“And this is your precious thought!” she said, with a 
look of bitter, smiling contempt ; “ and, with the baseness 
which so completely makes your nature, you would lay bare 
to my husband the unhappy guilt in which, through your 
own foul arts, my girlish innocence was lost! What a 
brave treachery would this be !” 

“ Nay, Margaret, but I do not threaten this. I only de- 
clare what might be the effect of your provoking me beyond 
patience.” 

“ Oh ! you are moderate — very moderate. I look on 
you, Alfred Stevens, from head to foot, and doubt my eyes 
that tell me I behold a man. The shape is there — the out- 
side of that noble animal, but it is sure a fraud. The beast- 
fiend has usurped the nobler carcass, himself being all the 
while unchanged.” 

“ Margaret, this scorn — ” 

“ Is due, not less to your folly than your baseness, as you 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 267 

will see when I have told you all. Know then, that when 
1 gave this hand to Orville Beauchampe — nay, before it 
was given to him, and while he was yet at liberty to re 
nounce it — I told him that it was a dishonored hand.’’ 

“ You did not ! You could not !” 

“ By the God that hears me, I did. I told him the whole 
story of my folly and my shame. Oh ! Alfred Stevens, if in 
truth you had loved me as you professed, you would have 
known that it was not in my nature to stoop to fraud and 
concealment at such a time. Could you think that I would 
avail myself of the generous ardor of that noble youth to 
suffer him, unwittingly, to link himself to possible shame ? 
No — no ! His magnanimity, his love, the warmth of his 
affections, the loftiness of his soul, his genius — all — all de- 
manded of me the most perfect confidence ; and I gave it 
him. I withheld nothing, except, it seems, the true name 
cf my deceiver !” 

“I can not, believe it, Margaret — Beauchampe never 
wouiL have married you with this knowledge.” 

“ On my life, he did. Every syllable was spoken in his 
ears. Nay, more. Colonel Sharpe — and let this be another 
warning to you to forbear and fly — I swore Beauchampe on 
the Holy Evangelists, ere he made my hand his own, to 
avenge my dishonor on my betrayer. I made that the con- 
dition of my hand !” 

‘‘ And why now would you forbear prosecuting this ven - 
geance ? Why, if you were so resolved upon it — why do 
you counsel me to fly from the danger ? Do you mean to 
declare the truth to Beauchampe when I am gone ?” 

“ No ! not if you leave me, and promise me never again 
to seek either me or him.” 

“ No — no ! Margaret, this story lacks probability. I can 
'lot believe it. I am a lawyer, you must remember. These 
inconsistencies are too strong. You swear your husband 
on tne Holy Evangelists to take my life, and the next mo- 
ment shield me from the danger ! Now, the ferocious hate 


268 


BEAUCHAMPE 


which induced the first proceeding can not be so easily 
quieted, as in a little month after, to effect the second. 
The whole story is defective, Margaret — it lacks all prob- 
ability.” 

“ Be it so. You are a lawyer, and no doubt a wise one. 
The story may seem improbable to you, but it is true never- 
theless. However strange and inconsistent, it is yet not 
unnatural. The human ties which bind me to earth have 
grown stronger since my marriage, and, for this reason, if 
for no other, I would have the liands of my husband free 
from the stain of human blood, even though that blood be 
yours ! For this reason I have condescended to expostu- 
late with you — to implore you ! For this reason do I still 
implore and expostulate. Leave me — leave this house the 
moment your friend returns. Avoid Beauchampe as well 
as myself. There are a thousand easy modes for breaking 
off an intimacy. Adopt any one of these which shall seem 
least offensive. Spare me the necessity of declaring to my 
husband that the victim he is sworn to slay, is the person 
who has pretended to be his friend.” 

The philosophical poet tells us, that he whom God seeks 
to destroy he first renders a lunatic. In the conceit of his 
soul, in the plenitude of his legal subtlety, and with that 
blinding assurance that he could not lose, by any process, 
the affections he had once won, Sharpe persisted in believ- 
ing that the story' to which he listened, was in truth, noth 
ing more than an expedient of the woman to rid herself of 
the presence and the attentions which she rather feared 
than disliked. He neither believed that she had told the 
truth to Beauchampe, nor that she loathed him as she had 
declared. Himself of a narrow and slavish mindj he cculd 
not conceive the magnanimity of soul, which, in such a case 
as that of Margaret Cooper, would declare her dishonor co 
a lover seeking her hand — still less was he villing to be- 
lieve in the further stretch of magnanimity, on the part ol 
Beauchampe, in marrying any woman in the teeth of sue. 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 26^ 

a revelation. We may add, that, with such a prodigious 
degree of self-esteem as he himself possessed, the improba- 
bility was equally great that Margaret should ever cease to 
regard him with the devotedness of love. He had taken 
for granted that it was through the medium of her affec- 
tions that she became his victim, though all his arts were 
made to bear upon other characteristics of her moral nature, 
entirely different from those which belong to the tender 
passion. A vain man finds it easy to deceive himself, if he 
deceives nobody else. Here, then, was a string of improb- 
abilities which it required the large faith of a liberal spirit 
to overcome. Sharpe was not a man of liberal spirit, and 
such men are usually incredulous where the magnanimity 
of noble souls is the topic. Small wits are always of this 
character. Skepticism is their shield and even sevenfold 
coat-of-mail, and incredulity is the safe wisdom of timidity 
and self-esteem. Sucli men neither believe in their neigh- 
bors or in the novel truths which they happen to teach. 
They pay the penalty in most cases by dying in their blind- 
ness. 

Will this be the case with the party before us V Time 
will show. At all events, the earnest adjurations of the 
passionate and full-souled woman were entirely thrown away 
upon him. What she had said had startled him at first ; 
but with the usual obduracy of self-esteem, he had soon 
recovered from his momentary discomposure. He shook 
his head slowly, while a smile on his lips declared his 
doubts. 

“No, Margaret, it is impossible that you should have told 
these things to Beauchampe. I know you better, and I 
know well that he could never have married you, having a 
knowledge of the truth. You can not deceive me, Marga- 
ret, and wherefore should you try ? Why would you re- 
ject the love which was so dear to you in Charlemont; and 
if you can do this, /can not ? I love you too well, Marga- 
ret — remember too keenly the delights of our first union. 


270 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and ivill not believe in the necessity that denies that we 
should meet. No — no ! Once found, I will not lose you 
again, Margaret. You are too precious in my sight. We 
must see and meet each other often. Beauchampe shall 
still be my friend — his mariiage with you has made him 
doubly dear to me. So far from cutting him, I shall find 
occasions for making his household a place of my constant 
pilgrimage ; and do not sacrifice yourself by vain opposition 
to this intimacy. It will do no good and may do harm. I 
can make his fortune ; and I will, if you will hear reason. 
But you must remove to Frankfort — be a dutiful wife in 
doing so ; and — for this passion of revenge — believe that 
I was quite as much afflicted as yourself by the necessity 
that tore us asunder — as was the truth — and you will for- 
give the involuntary crime, and forget everything but the 
dear delights of that happy period. Do you hear me, Mar- 
garet — you do not seem to listen !” 

She regarded him with a countenance of melancholy 
scorn, which seemed also equally expressive of hopelessness 
and pity. It seemed as if she was at a loss which senti- 
ment most decidedly to entertain. Looking thus, but in 
perfect silence, she rose, and taking the pistol from the 
table where it had lain, she advanced toward the door of 
the apartment. He would have followed her, but she 
paused when at the door, and turning, said to him : — 

‘‘ If I knew. Colonel Sharpe, by what form of oath I 
could make you believe what 1 have said, I would assev- 
erate solemnly its truth. I am anxious for your sake, for 
my sake, and the sake of my husband, that you should be- 
lieve me. As God will judge us all, I have spoken nothing 
but the truth. I would save you, and spare myself the 
necessity of any further revelations. Life is still dear to 
me — peace is everything to me now. It is to secure this 
peace that I suppress my feelings — that I still implore you 
to listen to me and to believe. Be merciful. Spare me [ 
Spare yourself. Propose any form of oath which you con 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 


271 


sider most solemn, most binding, and I will repeat it on my 
knees, in confirmation of what I have said ! for on my soul 
I have spoken nothing but the truth 

He laughed and shook his head, as he advanced to where 
she stood. 

“ Nay, nay, Margaret — the value of oaths in such cases 
is but small. No form of oath can be very binding. Jove, 
you know, laughs at the perjuries of lovers ; and if we are 
lovers no longer — which I can not easily believe — the 
business between us, is so certainly a lover’s business, that 
Jove will laugh none the less at the vows we violate in car- 
rying it on. You take it too seriously, Margaret — it is 
you that are not wise. You can not deceive me — you are 
wasting labor.” 

She turned from him mournfully, with a single look, and 
in another moment was gone from sight. 


272 


^EAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXYl. 

DOOMED. 

Mr. Barnabas and Beauchampe returned from their 
morning ride in excellent spirits ; but there was some anx- 
iety and inquiry in the look of the former as his eye sought 
that of his confederate. He gathered little from this scru- 
tiny, however, unless it were the perfect success of the 
latter in the prosecution of his criminal object. The face 
and manner of Colonel Sharpe wore all the composure and 
placid satisfaction of one equally at peace with all the 
world and his own conscience. His headache had sub- 
sided. He seemed to have nothing on his mind to desire 
or to regret. 

“ Lucky dog !” was the mental exclamation of his satel- 
lite. “ He never fails in anything he undertakes. He does 
as he pleases equally with men and women.” 

Beauchampe had his anxieties also, which were a little 
increased as he noted a greater degree of sadness on his 
wife’s countenance than usual. But his anxiety had no 
relation whatever to the real cause of fear — to the real 
source of that suffering which appeared in her looks. Not 
uie slightest suspicion of evil from his friend Colonel Sharpe 
had ever crossed his mind, even for an instant. 

Dinner came off, and Colonel Sharpe was in his happiest 
;ein. His jests were of the most brilliant order; but, un- 
• css in the case of Mr. Barnabas, his humor was not conta- 


DOOMED. 


273 


gious. Mrs. Beauchampc scarcely seemed to hear what 
was addressed to her; and Beauchampe, beholding the 
increasing depth of shade on his wife’s countenance, neces- 
sarily felt a corresponding anxiety, which imparted similar 
shadows to his own. 

At dinner, Mr. Barnabas said something across the table 
to his companion, in reference to the probable time of de- 
parture. 

“ What say you — shall we ride to-morrow ?” 

“ Why, how’s your nag ?” 

“ Better ; not absolutely well, but able to go, when going 
homeward.” 

“ You may go,” said Sharpe, abruptly ; ‘‘ but I shall make 
a week of it with Beauchampe. The country, you say, is 
worth seeing, and there may be votes to be won by showing 
one’s self. I sec no reason even for you to hurry ; and I 
dare say Beauchampe’s hospitality will scarcely complain 
of our trespass for two days longer.” 

The speaker looked to Beauchampe, who, as a matter of 
course, professed his satisfaction at the prospect of keeping 
his friends. Tlie eye of Sharpe glanced to the face of the 
lady. A dark-red spot was upon her forehead. She met 
the glance of her enemy, and requited it with one of deep 
significance ; then, rising from the table, at once left the 
apartment. 

The things were removed, and Mr. Barnabas, counselled 
by a glance from his companion, proposed to Beauchampe 
to explore the farm. 

“I can’t bear the house when I can leave it — that is, 
when I’m in the country. A country-house seems to me an 
intolerable bore. Won’t you go, Sharpe ?” 

But the person addressed had already disposed himself 
in the rocking-chair, as if for the purpose of taking a nap. 
He answered, drowsily : — 

“ No, no, Barnabas ; take yourself off ! I would enjoy my 
siesta merely. With you, I should be apt to sleep soundly 


274 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Take him off, Beauchampe, and suffer me to make myself 
at home.” 

“ Oh, certainly, if you prefer it.” 

“I do! I take the world composedly — detest sight- 
seeing, and believe in Somnus. This habit of mine keeps 
me out of mischief, into which Barnabas is for ever falling. 
Away, now, my good boys, and enjoy the world and one 
another !” 

The roue was alone. Ten minutes had not passed, when 
Mrs. Beauchampe re-entered the apartment. This was an 
event which Colonel Sharpe had scarcely anticipated. He 
had remained, simply to be in the way of what he would 
esteem some such fortunate chance ; hoped for it; and, be- 
lieving that the lady was playing only a very natural femi- 
nine game, did not think it imj)robalde that the desired 
opportunity would be afforded him. So early a realization 
of his wishes was certainly unexpected — not undesired, 
however. The surprise was a pleasurable one, and he 
started into instant vivacity on licr appearance, rising from 
his seat and approaching her with extended hand as if to 
conduct her to it. 

“ Stay, Colonel Sharpe ! I come but for a moment.” 

‘‘ Do not say so, Margaret.” 

“ A moment, sir, will suffice for all that I purpose. You 
speak of remaining here till the close of the week ? Now, 
hear me ! Your horses must be saddled after breakfast to- 
morrow. You must then depart. I must hear you express 
this determination when we meet at the breakfast-table. If 
you do not, sir — on the word of a woman whom you have 
made miserable, and still keep so, I shall declare to Mr. 
Beauchampe the whole truth !” 

“ What 1 expel me from your house, Margaret ? No, no ! 
I as little believe you can do this as do the other. This, 
my dear girl, is the merest perversity !” 

He offered to take her I and. She recoiled. 

‘‘ Colonel Sharpe, your unhappy vanity deceives you. 


DOOMED. 


X. 

^ i O 

What do you see in my looks, my conduct, to justify these 
doubts of what I say, or this continued presumption on your 
part ? Do I look tlie wanton ? do I look the pliant damsel 
whose grief is temporary only — which a smile of deceit, or 
a cunning word, can dissipate in a moment ? Look at me 
well, sir. M// peace, and your life, depend upon the wis- 
dom which Heaven at this moment may vouchsafe you. Oh, 
sir, be not blind ! See, in these wobegone cheeks and eyes, 
nothing but the misery, approaching to despair, which my 
bosom feels ! See, and be warned ! You can not surely 
doubt that I am in earnest. For the equal sake of your 
body and soul, I implore you to believe me !” 

Cassandra never looked more terribly true to her utter- 
ance — to the awful predictions which her lips poured forth 
— but, like Cassandra, Margaret Cooper was fated not to 
be bolieved. The unhappy man, blinded by that flattering 
self-esteem which blinds so many, was insensible to her 
expostulations — to the intense wo, expressing itself in 
loGis o be most severe majesty, of her highly-expressive 
countenance. 

The effect of her intensity of feeling was to elevate the 
style of her beauty, and this was something against the 
success of her entreaty. Vain and dishonorable as he was, 
Sharpe gazed on her with a sincere admiration. Unhap- 
pily, lie was not one to venerate. That refining agent of 
moral worsliip was wanting to his heart ; and in its place a 
selfish lust after i.ho pleasures of the moment was the only 
divinity which he had set up. 

It would be idle to repeat his answer to the imploring 
prayer of the half-distracted woman. He had as little 
generosity as veneration : he could not forbear. His mind 
had become inflexible, from the too frequent contemplation 
of it: lusts ; and what he said was simply what might have 
been said by any callous, clever man, who, in the prosecu- 
tion of a selfisli pui pose, regards nothing but the end in 
view. H(j answ'cred with pleasar.try tlmt we which was 


276 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


SO much more expressively shown in her looks than in her 
utterance. Pleasantry at such a moment ! — pleasantry 
addressed to that painfully-excited imagination, whose now- 
familiar images were of deatli, and despair, and blood ! She 
answered him by clasping her hands together. 

“ We are doomed !” she exclaimed, while a groan forced 
its way, at the close of her sentence, as if from the very 
bottom of her heart. 

“Doomed, indeed, Margaret! How very idle, unless 
you doom us !” 

“ And I do ! You are doomed, and doomed by Al- 
fred Stevens, unless you leave this house to-morrow !” 

“ Be sure I shall do no such thing!” 

“ Your blood be upon your own head ! I have warned 
you, counselled you, implored you — I can do no more!” 

“ Yes, Margaret, you can persuade me, beguile me, rub- 
due me — make me your captive, slave, worshipper, every- 
thing — as you have done before — by only lovinor rne as 
you did then. Be not foolisli and perverse. Com^ tc me : 
let us renew those happy hours tliat we knew in Charlo- 
mont, when you had none of these gloomy notions to affright 
others and to vex yourself with !” 

“ Fool ! fool ! Blind and vain ! With sense neither to 
see nor to hear ! — Alfred Stevens, there is yet time ! But 
the hours are numbered. God be merciful, so that they be 
not yours! We meet at the table to-morrow morning for 
the last time.” 

“ Stay, Margaret !” he exclaimed, seeing her about to 
leave the room. 

“ To-morrow morning for the last time !” she repeated, 
as she disappeared from sight. 

“Devilish strange! But they are all so — perverse as 
the devil himself! There is nothing to be done here by 
assault. We must have time, and make our approaches 
with more caution. My desertion sticks in her gorge. I 
must mollify her on that score. Work slowly, but surely 


DOOMED. 


I have been too bold — too confident. I did not make suf- 
ficient allowances for her pride, which is diabolically strong. 
I must ply her with the sedatives first. But one would 
have thought that she had sufficient experience to have 
taken the thing more coolly. As for her blabbing to Beau- 
charnpe, that's all in my eye ! No, no, you can not terrify 
me by such a threat. I am too old a stager for that : nay, 
indeed, how much of your wish to drive me off arises from 
your dread that I shall blab ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! but you too 
shall be safe from that. My policy is ‘ mum,’ like your 
own. To be frightened off by such a threat would prove a 
man as sorry a fool as coward. We sha’n’t go to-morrow, 
fair Mistress Margaret, doom or no doom !” 

Such were the muttered meditations of Colonel Sharpe 
after Mrs. Beauciiampe had left him. Perhaps they were 
such as would be natural to most men of the same charac- 
ter. Ilis estimate of the woman, also, was no doubt a very 
just estimate of the ordinary woman of the world, placed 
in similar circumstances, after having committed the same 
monstrous and scarcely remediable lapse from virtue and 
place. 

But we have shown that Margaret Cooper was no ordi 
nary woman ! He knew that^ himself ; but he did not be- 
lieve her equal to the purpose which she threatened, nor 
did he believe her when she informed him of the magnani- 
mous course which she had already pursued in relation to 
Beauchampe. Could he have believed that^ indeed ? 

But it was not meant that he should believe. The des- 
tiny that shapes our ends was not to be diverted in his case. 
As his victim had declared, with solemn emphasis, on leav 
ing him, he was, indeed, doomed — doomed — doomed! 


278 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

BITTER TEARS OP PREPARATION. 

We pass, with hurried progress, over the proceedings of 
that night. The reader will please believe that Colonel 
Sharpe was, as usual, happy in his dialogue, and fluent in 
his humor. Indeed, by that strange contradiction in the 
work of destiny, which sometimes so arranges it that death 
does the work of tragedy in the very midst of the marriage 
merriment, the spirits of the doomed man were never more 
elastic and excitable than on that very night. He and 
Earnabas kept his host, till a late hour, from his couch. 
The sounds of their laughter penetrated the upper apart- 
ments, and smote mournfully upon the ears of the unhappy 
wife, to whom all sounds, at that moment, came laden with 
the weight of wo. One monotonous voice rang through her 
senses and the house, as in the case of Macbeth, and cried, 
“ Sleep no more !” Such, at least, was the effect of the 
cry upon her. Precious little had been her sleep, in that 
house, from the moment that bad man entered it. Was she 
ever to sleep again ? She herself believed not. 

The guests at length retired to their chamber, and Beau- 
champe sought his. At his approach, his wife rose from 
her knees. Poor, striving, struggling, hopeless heart ! she 
had been laboring to beat down thought, and to wrestle 
with prayer. But thought mingled with prayer, and ob- 
tained the mastery. Such tliouglits, too — such thoughts 
(if (1)0 (crrible necessity before her! 


EA’IEP. TEARS OF PREPARATION. 


279 


Oil, how criminal was the selfish denial cf that man! 
Life liad become sweet and precious. Her husband had 
grown dear to iier in proportion as he convinced her that 
she was dear to him. Permitted to remain in their obscu- 
rity, life might still be retained, and would continue, with 
length of days, to become more and more precious. But 
the destroyer was there, unwilling to spare — unwilling to 
forego the ravages he had begun. Not to tell her husband 
the whole truth — to listen to the criminal any longer with- 
out denouncing him — would not only be to encourage him 
in his crime, but to partake of it. If he remained another 
day, she was bound by duty, and sworn before the altar, to 
declare the truth ; and the truth, once told, was only an- 
other name for utter desolation — blood upon the hands, 
death upon the soul ! With such thoughts, prayer was not 
possible. But she had striven in prayer, and that was 
something. Nay, it was something gained, even to think 
in the position of humility — upon her knees. 

She rose, when she heard her husband approach — took 
a book, and seating herself beside the toilet, prepared to 
read. She composed her countenance, with a very decided 
effort of will, so as to disperse some of the storm-clouds 
which had been hanging over it. Her policy was, at pres- 
ent, not to alarm her husband’s suspicions, if possible, in 
relation to her guests. It might be that Sharpe would 
grow wiser with the passage of the night. Sleep, and 
quiet, and reflection, might work beneficial results ; and if 
he would only depart with the morning, she trusted to time 
and to her own influence over Beauchampe, to break off the 
intimacy between the parties without revealing the fatal 
truth. 

“What! not abed, Anna ?” said Beauchampe. “It is 
late ; do you know the hour ! It is nigh one 1” 

“ Indeed, but I am not sleepy.” 

“ I am ; what with riding and rambling with Barnaba-s I 
am completely knocked up. Besides, he is such a dull feh 


280 


BEADCHAMPE. 


low. Now Sharpe has wit, humor, and other resources, 
whicli make a man forgetful of the journey and the progress 
of time.” 

“ Has Colonel Sharpe said anything about going ?” de- 
manded the wife with some abruotne?3. 

u Yes—” 

“ Ah !” — with some eagerness — “ when does he go ?” 

“ At the close of the week. He is disposed to see some- 
thing of the neighborhood.” 

She drew a long breath, scarcely suppressing the deep 
sigh which struggled for utterance ; and once more fixed 
her eyes on the book. It need not be said that she read 
nothing. 

“ Come to bed, dearest,” said Beaucliampc tenderly ; ‘‘ you 
hurt your eyes by night reading. They have been looking 
red all day.” 

She promised him, and, overcome with fatigue, the hus- 
band soon slept, but the wife did not rise. For more than 
two hours she sat, the book still in her hands ; but her 
eyes were unconscious of its pages, her thoughts were not 
in that volume. She thought only of that coming morrow, 
and the duties and dangers which its coming would involve. 
She was seeking to steel her mind with the proper resolu- 
tion, and this was no easy effort. 

Imagine the task before her — and the difiiculty in the 
way of acquiring the proper liardihood will easily be under- 
stood. Imagine yourself preparing for the doom wliich is 
to follow in twelve hours ; and conjecture, if you can, the 
sort of meditations which will come to you in that dreary 
but short interval of time. Suppose yourself in health, too 
- -young, beautiful, highly endowed, intensely ambitious, 
with the prospect — if those twelve hours can be passed in 
safety — of love, long life, happiness, and possibly, “ troops 
of friends” all before you, smiling, beckoning, entreating 
in the sunny distance ! Imagine all this in the case of that 
proud, noble-hearted, most lovely, highly intellectual, but 


BITTER TEARS OP PREPARATION. 


281 


wo-cnvironed woman, and you will not wonder that she did 
not sleep. Still less will it be your wonder that she could 
not pray. Life and hope were too strong for sufficient hu- 
mility. The spirit and the energy of her heart were not yet 
sufficiently subdued. 

Dreary was the dismal watch she kept — still in the one 
position. At length her husband moved and murmured in 
his sleep. In his sleep he called her name, and coupled 
with it an endearing epithet. Then the tide flowed. The 
proper chords of human feeling were stricken in her heart. 
The rock gushed. It was stubborn no longer. But the 
waters were bitter, though the relief was sweet. Bitter 
were the tears she wept, but they were tears, human tears ; 
and like the big drops that relieve the heat of the sky and 
disperse its unbreathing vapors, they took some of the 
mountain pressure from her heart, and left her free to 
breathe, and hope, and pray. 

She rose and stepped lightly beside the bed where Beau- 
champe slept. She hung over him. Still he murmured in 
his sleep. Still he spoke her name, and still his words 
were those of tenderness and love. Mentally she prayed 
above him, while the big drops fell from her eyes upon the 
pillow. One sentence alone became audible in her prayer 

— that sentence of agonizing apostrophe, spoken by the 
Savior in his prescience of the dreadful hour of trial which 
was to come : “ If thou be willing. Father, let this cup pass 
by me !” 

She had no other prayer, and in this vain and useless 
repetition of the undirected thoughts, she passed a sad and 
comfortless night. But she had been gaining strength. A 
stern and unfaltering spirit — it matters not whence derived 

— came to her aid, and with the return of sunrise she arose, 
with a solemn composure of soul, prepared, however gloom- 
ily, to go forward in her terrible duties. 


282 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE BOLT SPED. 

Beauchampe rose refreshed and more cheerful than usual. 
The plans for the day, which had been discussed by him- 
self and friends the previous night, together with the lively 
dialogue which had made them heedless of the progress of 
the hours, were recalled to his memory, and he rose with 
an unwonted spirit of elasticity and humor. 

But the lively glance of his eye met no answering pleas- 
ure in that of his wife. She was up before him. He did 
not dream that she had not slept — that for half the night 
she had hung above his sleep engaged in mental prayer that 
such slumbers might still be spared to him, even if the 
dreary doom of such a watch was still allotted to her. He 
gently reproached her for the settled sadness in her looks, 
and she replied only by a sigh. He did not notice the in- 
tense gleams which, at moments, issued from her eyes, or 
lie might have guessed that some terrible resolution was 
busy working at the fiery forge within her brain. Could he 
guess the sort of manufacture going on in that dangerous 
workshop ? But he did not. 

The party was assembled at the breakfast-table ; and, as 
if with a particular design to apprize Mrs. Beauchampe, that 
her warnings were not heeded. Colonel Sharpe dwelt with 
great deliberation upon the best modes before them of con- 
suming tlie rest of tlic week with profit. 


THE BOLT SPED. 


288 


“ What say you, Beauchampe, to a morning at your 
friend Tiernan’s — he will give us arouse, I’m thinking; 
the next day with Coalter, and Saturday, what ho ! for an 
elk-hunt ! at all events, Barnabas must go to Coalter’s — he’s 
a client of his, and will never forgive the omission ; and it 
is no less important that you should give him the elk-hunt 
also ; he has a taste for hard riding, and it will do him 
good. He’s getting stoutish, and a good shaking will keep 
his bulk within proper bounds. Certainly, he must have an 
elk-hunt.” 

A like reason will make it necessary that you should 
share it also, colonel,” said Beauchampe. “ You partake, 
in similar degree, of the infirmity of flesh which troubles 
Mr. Barnabas.” 

‘‘ Ay, ay, but I am no candidate for the red-hat, which is 
the case with Barnabas, and which the conclave will reli- 
giously refuse to a man with a corporation.” 

“But you are after the seat of attorney-general,” said 
Mr. Barnabas, with the placable smile of dullness. 

“ Granted ; and for such an office a good corporation may 
be considered an essential, rather than anything else. It 
confers dignity, Hal. Now, the red-hatted gentry of the 
club are not expected to be dignified. The humor of the 
thing forbids it ; and as a candidate for that communion, 
it is necessary that you should live on soup maigre^ and 
‘ seek the chase with hawk and hound,’ as Earl Percy did. 
Besides, Beauchampe, he has a passion for it.” 

“la passion for it ?” said Barnabas. 

“Yes, to be sure — what were all those stories you used 
to tell us of huntiug in Tennessee ; stories that used to set our 
hair on end at your hairbreadth escapes. Either we must 
suppose you to have grown suddenly old and timid, or we 
must suppose, that, in telling those stories of your prowess, 
you were amusing us with some pleasant fictions. That’s 
a dilemma for you, Barnabas, if you disclaim a })assion for 
an elk-hunt now.” 


284 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


‘‘ No ! by Jupiter, I told you nothing but the truth,” said 
Barnabas, solemnly. 

“ I believe it,” said Sharpe, with equal solemnity, “ T 
oelieve it, and believe that the passion continues.” 

“ Well,” said the other, “ I can’t altogether deny that it 
does, but it has been somewhat cooled by other pursuits 
and associations.” 

“ It must be warmed again,” responded Sharpe ; “ remem- 
Der, Beauchampe, be sure to make up a party for Saturday.” 

“ We include you in it ?” asked Beauchampe. 

“Ay, ay — if I happen to be ‘ i’ the vein.’ But, you 
know, like Corporal Nym, I’m a person of humors. I may 
not have the fit upon me, or I may have some other fit ; and 
may prefer remaining at home to read poetry with our fair 
hostess.” 

The speaker glanced significantly at Mrs. Beauchampe 
as he said these words. Their eyes encountered. Hei*s 
wore an expression of the soberest sadness. As if pro- 
voked by the speech and the glance, she said, in the most 
deliberate language, while her look was full of the most 
rebukeful and warning expression : — 

“ I thought you were to leave this morning for Frank- 
fort, Colonel Sharpe. I derived that impression somehow 
from something that was said last evening.” 

Beauchampe turned full upon his wife with a stern look 
of equal astonishment and inquiry. Mr. Barnabas was 
aghast ; and Colonel Sharpe himself for a moment lost hic 
equilibrium, and was speechless, while his eyes looked the 
incertitude which he felt. He was the first, however, to 
recover ; and, with a sort of legal dexterity, assuming as 
really having been his own the determination which she had 
suggested as being made by him, he replied : — 

“ True, my dear madam, that was my purpose yesterday ; 
but the kind entreaties of our host, and the pleasant projects 
which we discussed last night, persuaded me to yield to the 
temptation, and to stay till Sunday.” 


THE BOLT SPED. 


285 


The speaker bowed politely, and returned tlie severe 
glance of the lady with a look of mingled conciliation and 
doubt. For the first time, he began to feel apprehensive 
that he had mistaken her, and perhaps himself. She was a 
woman of prodigious strength of soul, indomitable resolu- 
tion, and the courage of a gigantic man. Never did words 
proceed more deliberately, more evenly, from human lips, 
than did the reply from hers : — 

“ That can not be. Colonel Sharpe. It is necessary that 
you should keep your first resolution. Mr. Beauchampe 
can no longer accommodate you in his dwelling.” 

“ How, Mrs. Beauchampe !” exclaimed the husband, 
starting to his feet, and confronting her. She had risen 
while speaking, and was preparing to leave the room. She 
looked on him with a countenance mournful and humble — 
very different from that which she wore in addressing the 
other. 

“ Speak, Anna — say, Mrs. Beauchampe !” exclaimed the 
husband, ‘‘what does this mean ? This to my guests — to 
my friend !” 

“ He is not your friend, Beauchampe — nor mine ! But 
let me pass — I can not speak here !” 

She left the room, and Beauchampe, with a momentary 
glance at Sharpe, full of bewilderment, hurried after his 
wife. 

“ What’s this, Sharpe, in the devil’s name ?” demanded 
Barnabas in consternation. 

“ The devil himself, Barnabas !” said Sharpe. “ I’m afraid 
the Jezebel means to blow me, and tell everything !” 

“ But you told me last night that all was well and going 
right.” 

“ So I thought ! I fear I was mistaken ! At all events, 
I must prepare for the worst. Have you any weapons 
about you ?” 

“ My dirk !” 

“ Give it me : my pistols are in the saddle-bags.” 


286 


BBAUCHAMPB 


“ But what shall I do 

“ You are in no danger. Give me t’le dirk, and hurry 
out and have our horses ready. B — n the woman ! — who 
could have belrcvcd it ! ” 

“ Ah, you’re always so sanguine!” began Barnabas; but 
the other interrupted him : — 

“ Pshaw ! this is no time for lecturing. Your wisdom is 
eleventh-hour wisdom ! It is too late here. Hurry, and 
prepare yourself and the horses, while I go to the room and 
get the saddle-bags ready. If I am blown, my start can 
not be too sudden.” 

Barnabas, always pliant, disappeared instantly ; and 
Sharpe, concealing the dirk in his bosom, with the handle 
convenient to his clutch, found himself unpleasantly alone. 

“ Who the d — 1 could have thought it ? What a woman I 
But it may not be as bad as I fear. She may invent some- 
thing to answer the purpose of getting me off. She cer- 
tainly can not tell the whole. No, no ! that would be to 
suppose her mad. And mad she may be : I had not thought 
of that ! Now, I think of it, she looks cursedly like an 
insane woman. That wild, fierce gleam of her eye — those 
accents — and, indeed, everything since I have been here! 
Certainly, had she not been mad, it must have been as I 
wished. I could not have been deceived — never was de- 
ceived yet — by a sane woman ! It must be so ; and, if so, 
it is possible that she may blurt out the whole. I must be 
prepared. Beauchampe's as fierce as a vulture when roused. 
I’ve seen that in him before. I must get my pistols — 
though, in going for them, I may meet him on the stairs. 
Well, if I do, I am armed ! He is scarcely more powerful 
than myself. Yet I would not willingly have him grapple 
with me, if only because he is her husband. The very 
thought of her makes me half a coward ! And yet I must 
be prepared. It must be done !” 

Such were his reflections. He advanced to the entrance. 
The footsteps of Beauchampe were heard rapidly striding 


THE BOLT SPED. 


287 


across the chamber overhead. The crimiLa^ recoiled as he 
heard them. A tremor shot through his limbs. He clutched 
the dagger in his bosom, set his teeth firmly, and waited for 
a moment at the entrance. 

The sounds subsided above. Pie thrust his head through 
the doorway, into the passage, and leaned forward in the 
act of listening. The renewed silence which now prevailed 
in the house gave him fresh courage. He darted up the 
steps, sought his chamber, and with eager, trembling hands 
caught up and examined his pistols. Both were loaded, 
and he thrust them into the pockets of his coat ; then seiz- 
ing his own and the saddle-bags of his companion, he darted 
out f the chamber, and down the stairs, with footsteps 
equally light and rapid. 

Once more in the hall, and well armed, he was more 
composed, but as little prepared, morally, for events as 
before: There was a heavy fear upon his spirit. The con- 
scioucncss of guilt is a terrible queller of one’s manhood. 
He waited impatiently for the return of Barnabas. At 
such a moment, even the presence of one whom : o esti- 
mated rather humbly, and with some feelings oi contdiipt, 
was grateful to his enfeebled spirit ; and the appearance of 
the h rses at the door, and the return of his friend, had 
the effect of le-enlivening him to a degree which made him 
blush for the feeling of apprenension which he had so lately 
'i:t«irtained. 

“All’s ready! — will you ride?” demanded Barnabas, 
picking up his saddle-bags. The worthy coadjutor was by 
no means audacious in his courage. Sharpe hesitated. 

“ It may be only a false alarm, after all,” said he ; “ we 
had better wait and see.” 

“ I think not,” said the former. “ There was no mista- 
king the words, and as little the looks. She’s a very reso- 
lute woman.” 

Colonel Sharpe was governed by the anxieties of guilt 
as well as its fears. The painful desire to hear and know 


288 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to what extent the revelations of the wife had gone- a 
half confidence that all would not be told — that some loop- 
hole would be left for retreat — and the further conviction 
that, at all events, whatever was the nature of her story to 
her husband, it was quite as well that he should know it at 
one moment as another — encouraged him to linger; and 
this resolve, with the force of an habitual will, he impressed 
upon his reluctant companion. 

Leaving them to their suspense below, let us join the 
huEband and wife above stairs. 


EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEWED. 


i:89 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEWED. 

“ Take the dagger — 

The victim waits ! Thy honor and my safety 

Demand me stroke !” — Old Play. 

“In the name of God, Mrs. Beauchampe!” — such was 
the address of her husband as he joined her in their cham- 
ber — “ what is the meaning of all this ?” 

She silently took from the toilet a pair of pistols, and 
offered them to him. 

“What mean you by these — by this treatment of my 
friends 

“ Your friends are villains ! Colonel Sharpe and Alfred 
Stevens are the same person 

“ Impossible !” he replied, recoiling with horror from the 
proffered weapons. 

“ True as gospel, Beauchampe !” 

“ True ?” 

“ True ! before Heaven, I speak the truth, my husband ! 
— a dreadful, terrible truth, which I would not speak were 
it possible not to do so !’’ 

“ And why has not this been told me before ? Why has 
he been suffered to remain in your presence — nay, to be 
alone with you for hours - since his coming ? Bid you 
know him from the first to be the same man V\ 

“ From the first !” 

“ Explain, then ! — for God’s sake, explain ! You blind 
13 


290 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


me — you stun me ! I am utterly unable to see this thing ! 
How, if you knew him from the first, suffer for a moment 
the contagion of his presence 

‘‘ This I can easily answer you, my husband. Bear with 
me patiently while I do so ! I will lay bare to you my 
:y \ole soiT, and show you by what motives of forbearance 
; was governed, until driven to the course I have pursued 
V tne bold insolence of thii’ uncompromising villain.’’ 

She paused — pressed her head with her hands as if to 
subdue the tumult whicii was striving within ; then, with 
an effort whicti seemed to demand her greatest energies, 
she proceeded with her speech. 

She entered into an explanation of that change in her 
feelings and desires which had been consequent upon her 
marriage. She acknowledged the force of those new do- 
mestic ties which she had formed, in making her unwilling 
that any event should take place which should commit her- 
self or husband in the eyes of the community, and bring 
about a disruption of those ties, or. a further development 
of her story — which would be certain to follow, in the 
event of an issue between her husband and her seducer. 
"With this change in her mood, prior to the appearance of 
this person and his identification with Colonel Sharpe, she 
had prayed that he might never reappear ; and when he 
did — when he became the guest of her husband, and was 
regarded as his friend — it was her hope that a sense of 
his danger would have prompted him to make his visit 
short, and prevent him from again renewing it. Her own 
deportment was meant to be such as should produce this 
determination in his breast. But when this failed of its 
effect ; when, in despite of warning, in defiance of danger, 
in the face of hospitality and friendship, the villain pre- 
sumed to renew his loathsome overtures of guilt ; when no 
hope remained that he would forbear ; when it was seen 
that he was without generosity, and that neither the rebuke 
of her scorn nor the warnings of her anger could repel his 


EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEWED. 


insolent advances — then it was that she felt compelled 
speak — then, and not before ! 

She had deferred this necessity to the last moment ; she 
had been purposely slow. She had given the seducer every 
opportunity to withdraw in safety, and made the condition 
of his future security easy, by asking only that he would 
never seek or see her again ! 

She had striven in vain ; and, failing to find the immunity 
she sought from her own strength and firmness, it was no 
longer possible to evade the necessity which forced her to 
seek it in the protection of her husband. It was now neces 
sary that lie should comply with liis oath, and for this 
reason she had placed the weapons of death in his hands. 
Henceforth, the struggle was his alone. Of the sort of 
duty to be done, no doubt could exist in either mind ! 

Such was the narrative which, with the coherence not 
only of a sane but a strong mind, and a will that no pain 
of body and pang of soul could overcome, she poured into 
the ears of her husband. We will not attempt to describe 
the agony, the utter recoil and shrinking of soul, with which 
he heard it. There is a point to which human passion 
sometimes arrives when all language fails of description ; 
as, in a condition of physical suffering, the intensity of the 
pain is providentially relieved by utter unconsciousness and 
stupor. But, such was the surprise with which Beauchampe 
received the information of that identity between Alfred 
Stevens and his friend — his friend! — that the impression 
which followed from what remained of his wife’s narrative 
was comparatively slight. You might trace the accumula- 
tion of pang upon pang, in his lieart, as the story went on, 
by a slight convulsive movement of the lip — but the eye 
did not seem to speak. It was fixed and glassy, and so 
vacant, that its expression iniglit have occasioned some ap- 
prehension in the mind of the wife, had her own intensity 
of suffering — however kept down — not been of so blinding 
and darkening a character. 


292 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


VriicJi slio liad ended, he grasped the pistols, and hurried 
to the entrance, but as suddenly returned. He laid the 
weapons down upon the toilet. 

“No!” he exclaimed — “not here! It must not be in 
this house. He has eaten at our board — he is beneath our 
roof. This threshold must not be stained with the blood 
of the guest !” 

He looked at her as he spoke these words. But she did 
not note his glance. Her eyes were fixed ; her hands were 
clasped ; she did not seem to note his presence, and her 
head was bent forward as if she listened. A moment was 
passed in this manner, when, as he still looked, she turned 
suddenly and seemed only then to behold him. 

“ You are here !” she said ; “ where are the pistols ?” 

He did not answer ; but, following the direction of his 
eye, she saw them on the toilet, and, striding toward them, 
fiercely and rapidly she caught them up from the place 
where they lay. 

“ What would you, Anna ?” he asked, seizing her wrists. 

“ The wrong is mine !” she exclaimed. “ My hand shall 
avenge it. It is sworn to it. I am prepared for it. Why 
should it be put upon another ?” 

“ No !” he cried — while his brow gathered into a cloud 
of wrinkles — “no, woman! You are mine, and your 
wrongs are mine — mine only ! I will avenge them : but I 
must avenge them as I think right — after my own fashion 
— in my own time. Fear not that I will. Believe that I 
am a man, with the feelings and the resolution of a man, 
and do not doubt that I will execute my oath — ay, even 
were it no oath — to the uttermost letter of the obligation! 
Give me the weapons !” 

She yielded them. Her whole manner was subdued — 
her looks — her words. 

“ 0 Beauchampe, would that I could spare you this !” 

“Do I wish it, Anna? Would 1 be spared? No, my 
wife ! This duty is doubly incumbent on me now. This 


EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEWED. 293 

reptile has made your wrong doubly that of your husband. 
Has he not renewed his criminal attempt under my own 
roof? This, this alone, would justify me in denying him 
its protection ; but I will not. He shall not say he was 
entrapped ! As the obligation is a religious one, I shall 
execute its laws with the deliberation of one who has a 
task from God before him. I will not violate the holy 
pledges of hospitality, though he has done so. While he 
remains in my threshold, it shall protect him. But fear 
not that vengeance shall be done. Before God, my wife, 
I renew my oath 

He lifted his hand to heaven as he spoke, and she sunk 
upon her knees, and with her hands clasped his. Her 
lips parted in speech, and her murmurs reached his ears, 
but what she spoke was otherwise inaudible. He gently 
extricated himself from her embrace — went to the basin, 
and deliberately bathed his forehead in the cold water. 
She remained in her prostrate position, her face clasped in 
her hands, and prone upon the floor. Having performed 
his ablutions, Beauchampe turned and looked upon her 
steadfastly, but did not seek to raise her ; and, after a mo- 
ment’s further delay, left the chamber and descended the 
stairs. 

Then his wife started from her feet, and moved toward 
the toilet, where the weapons lay. Her hand was ex- 
tended as if to grasp them, but she failed to do so, and 
staggered forward with the manner of one suddenly dizzy 
with blindness. With this feeling she turned toward the 
bed, and reached it in time to save herself a fall upon the 
floor. She sank forward, face downward, upon the couch ; 
and while a husky sound — a feeble sort of laughter, wild 
and hysteric — issued from her throat, she lost all sense of 
the agony that racked her soul and brain, in the temporary 
unconsciousness of both ; and which, but for the relief of 
this timely apathy, must have been fatal to life. 


294 


BEAUCHAMPE 


CHAPTER XXX. 

REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 

When Colonel Sharpe heard the descending footsteps of 
Beauchampe as he came down the stairs, he asked Barna- 
bas to go into the passage-way and meet him — a request 
which made the other look a little blank. 

“There is no sort of danger to you, and you hear he 
walks slowly, not like a man in a passion. I doubt if she 
has told him all; perhaps she has told him nothing. At 
all events, you will be decidedly the best person to receive 
intelligence of what she has told. Pm thinking it’s a 
false alarm after all ; but, whether true or false, it can in 
no manner affect you. You are safe — go out, meet him, 
and learn how far I am so.” 

It has been seen that the will of the superior man, in 
spite of all first opposition, usually had its way with the in- 
ferior. Mr. Barnabas, however reluctant, submitted to the 
wishes of his companion, and with some misgivings, and 
with quite slow steps, left the room in order to meet with 
the husband, of whose rage such appreliensions were formed 
in both their minds. Sharpe, though he had expressed 
himself so confidently, or at least so hopefully, to Barnabas, 
was really full of apprehension. The moment that the lat- 
ter left the room, he took out his pistols, deliberately cocked 
them, and placing them behind his back, moving backward 
a little farther from the entrance ; preparing himself in this 


REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 


295 


manner for the encounter — if that became inevitable — with 
the angry husband. 

But the danger seemed to have passed away. Silence 
followed. The steps of Beauchampe were no longer heard, 
and, moving toward one of the front windows, the criminal 
beheld the two, already at a distance, and about to disap- 
pear behind the copse of wood that spread itself in front. 

Sharpe breathed more freely, and began to fancy that 
the cloud had dispersed, that the danger was overblown. 
He was mistaken. Let us join Beauchampe and his com- 
panion. 

“ Mr. Barnabas,’’ said the former, “ I speak to you still 
as to a gentleman, as I believe you have had no knowledge 
of the past crime of Colonel Sharpe, and no participation 
in his present villany.” 

“ Such was the opening remark of Beauchampe, when he 
had led the other from the house. Mr. Barnabas was 
prompt in denial and disclaimer. 

“ Crime — Beauchampe — villany ! Surely, you can not 
think I had any knowledge — any participation — ah ! — do 
you suppose — do you think I knew anything about it — ” 

“ About what demanded the suspicious Beauchampe, 
coolly fixing his eyes, with a keen glance, upon the embar- 
rassed speaker. 

“ Nay, my dear Beauchampe — that’s the question,” said 
the other. “ You speak of some crime, some villany, as I 
understand you, of which our friend Sharpe has been guilty. 
If it bo true, that he has been guilty of any, you are right 
in supposing that I know nothing about it. Nay, my dear 
fellow, don’t think it strange or impertinent, on my part, if 
I venture a conjecture — mark me, my dear fellow, a mere 
supposition — that there must be some mistake in this mat- 
ter. I can’t think that Sharpe, a fellow who stands so high, 
whom we both know so well and have known so long, such 
ar excellent fellow in fact, so cursed smart, and so clever 
a companion, can have been such a d d fool as to have 


296 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


practised any villany, at least upon a gentleman whom we 
both love and esteem so much as yourself.” 

“ There’s no mistake, Mr. Barnabas !” said the other, 
gravely. ‘‘ This man is a villain, and has been practising 
his villany to my dishonor, while in my house and enjoying 
my confidence and hospitality.” 

‘‘You don’t say so! it’s scarce possible, Beauchampe ! 
The crime’s too monstrous. I still think, I mean, I still 
hope, that there’s some very strange mistake in the matter 
which can be explained.” 

“ Unhappily, sir, there is none. There is no mistake, 
and nothing needs explanation !” 

“ That’s unfortunate, very unfortunate ! May I ask, my 
dear fellow, what’s the offence ?” 

“ Surely, of this I drew you forth to tell you, in order 
that you might tell him. I do not wish to take his life in my 
own dwelling, though his crime might well justify me in for- 
getting the sacred obligations of hospitality — might justify 
me, indeed, in putting him to death even though his hands 
grasped the very horns of the altar. He has busied him- 
self, while in my dwelling, in seeking to dishonor its mis- 
tress. While we rode, sir, and in our absence, he has toiled 
for the seduction of my wife. That’s his crime ! You will 
tell him that I know all 1” 

“ Great God ! What madness, what folly, what could 
have made him do so ? But, my dear Mr. Beauchampe, as 
he has failed, not succeeded, eh ?” 

The speaker stopped. It was not easy to finish- such a 
sentence. 

“I can not guess what you would say, Mr. Barnabas, 
nor, perhaps, is it necessary. You will please to go back 
to your companion, and say to him that he will instantly 
leave the dwelling which he has endeavored to dishoncr. 
I see that your horses are both ready — a sign, sir, that 
Colonel Sharpe has not been entirely unconscious of this 
necessity. I would fain nope, ivn . Barnabas, that, in pro 


REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 


297 


paring to depart you^'self, you acknowledge no more serious 
ob’ Ration to do so, than the words of my wife, conveyed at 
the breakfast-table !’* 

1 ^e sentence was expressed inquiringly, and the keen, 
searching glance of Beauchampe, declared a lurking sus- 
picion that made it very doubtful to Barnabas whether the 
husba/d did not fully suspect the auxiliary agency which 
he had really exhibited in the dishonorable proceedings of 
Sharoe. He iblt this, and could not altogether conceal his 
confrsion, though he saw the necessity of a prompt reply. 

“ 'ty dear Beauchampe, was it not enough to make a 
gentleman think of trooping, with bag and baggage, when 
the lady of the house gives him notice to quit.” 

“ jiut the notice was not given to you^ Mr. Barnabas.” 

‘ Granted; but Sharpe and myself were friends, you 
know, and came together, and being the spokesman in the 
case, you see — ” 

“ Enough, Mr. Barnabas ; 1 ask no explanation from you. 
1 do not say to you that it is necessary that you should quit 
along with Colonel Sharpe, but as your horse is ready, per- 
haps it is quite as well that you should.” 

“ Hem ! such was my purpose, Mr. Beauchampe.” 

“Yes, sir ; and you will do me the favor for which I re- 
quested your company, to say to him that the whole history 
of his conduct is known to me. In order that he should 
have no further doubts on this subject, you will suffer me to 
intrude upon you a painful piece of domestic history.” 

“ My dear Beauchampe, if it’s so very painful — ” 

“ I perceive, Mr. Barnabas, that what I am about to re- 
late will not have the merit of novelty to you.” 

“ Indeed, sir, but it will — I mean, I reckon it will. I 
really am very ignorant of what you intend to mention. I 
am, sir, upon my honor, I ajn !” 

Beauchampe regarded the creature with a cold smile of 
the most utter contempt, and when he had ended, re- 
sumed : — 


13 * 


298 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


‘‘ Tell Colonel Sharpe, if you please, that, before I in tr 
ried Mrs. Beauchampe, she herself told me the whole his- 
tory of Alfred Stevens and her own unhappy frailty, while 
she swore me to avenge her dishonor. Tell him that I 
will avenge it, and that he must prepare himself accord- 
ingly. My house confers on him the temporary privilege 
of safety. He will leave it as soon as convenient after you 
return to it. I will seek him only after he has reached his 
own ; and when we meet it is with the one purpose of tak- 
ing his life or losing my own. There can be no half strug- 
gle between us. There can be no mercy. Blocd, alone ! 
the blood of life — the life itself — can acquit me of my 
sworn obligation. It may be his life, or it may be mine ; 
but he must understand, that, while I live, the forfeit stands 
against him, not to be redeemed but in his blood ! This is 
all, sir, that I have to say.” 

“ But, my dear Beauchampe — ” 

“ No more, Mr. Barnabas, if you please. There can be 
nothing more between us. You will understand me further, 
when I tell you that I am not assured of your entire free- 
dom from this last contemplated crime of Colonel Sharpe. 
I well know your subserviency to his wishes, and but for 
the superior nature of his crime, and that I do not wish to 
distract my thoughts from the sworn and solemn purpose 
before me, I should be compelled to show you that I regard 
the weakness which makes itself the minister of crime as a 
quality which deserves its chastisement also. Leave me, 
if you please, sir. I have subdued myself with great diffi- 
culty, to the task I have gone through, and would not wish 
to be provoked into a forgetfulness of my forbearance. You 
are in possession of all that I mean to say — your horses 
are ready — I suspect your friend is ready also! Good 
morning, sir 1” 

The speaker turned into the copse, and Mr. Barnabas 
was quite too prudent a person to follow him with any 
further expostulations. The concluding warning of Beau 


REPRIEVE AND PLIGHT. 


299 


champe was not lost upon him ; and, glad to get off so 
well, he hurried back to the house, where Sharpe was await- 
ing him with an eagerness of anxiety which was almost 
feverish. 

“Well — what has he to say? You were long enough 
about it!’’ 

“ The delay was mine. He was as brief as charity. He 
knows all.” 

“ All ! impossible !” 

“All — every syllable! Nay, says he knew the whole 
story of Alfred Stevens and of his wife’s frailty before he 
married her. Begs me particularly to tell you that^ and 
to say, moreover, that he was sworn to avenge her wrong 
before marriage.” 

“ Then she told me nothing but the truth ! What a blind 
ass I have been not to know it, and believe her ! I should 
have known that she was like no other woman under the 
sun !” 

“ It’s too late now for such reflections : the sooner we’re 
off the better !” 

“ Ay, ay ! but what more does he say ?” 

“ That you are safe till you reach your own home ; but, 
after that, never ! It’s your life or his ! He shears it !” 

“ But was he furious ?” 

“No — by no means.” 

“ Then I’m deceived in the man as well as the woman ! 
If he lets me off now, I suspect there’s little to fear.” 

“ Don’t deceive yourself. He looked ready to break out 
at a moment’s warning. It was evidently hard work with 
him to contain himself. Some fantastic notion about the 
obligations of hospitality alone prevented him from seeking 
instant redress.” 

“ Fantastic or not, Barnabas, the reprieve is something. 
I don’t fear the cause, however bad, if I can stave it off 
for a term or two. Witnesses may die, in the meantime ; 
principals become unsettled ; new judges, witli new dicia^ 


300 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


come in, and there is always hope in conflicting authori- 
ties. To horse, mon ami! — a reprieve is a long step to a 
full pardon.’’ 

“ It’s something, certainly,” said the other, “ and I’m suro 
I’m glad of it ; but don’t deceive yourself. Be on your 
guard. If ever there was a man seriously savage in his 
resolution, Beauchampe is.” 

“Pshaw! Barnabas! — you were ever an alarmist!” 
replied Sharpe, whose elasticity had returned to him 
with the withdrawal of the momentary cause of appre- 
hension. 

“We shall tame this monster, however savage, if you 
only give us time. Let him come to Frankfort, and we’ll 
set the whole corps of ‘Red-Hats,’ yours among ’em, at 
work to get him to the conclave ; and one Saturday’s bout, 
well plied, will mellow body and soul in such manner that 
he will never rage afterward, however he may roar. I tell 
you, my lad, time is something more than money. It sub- 
dues hate and anger, softens asperity, wakens up new prin- 
ciples, makes old maids young ones — ay, my boy, and” — 
here, looking up over his horse, which he was just about 
to mount, at the windows of Beauchampe’s chamber, and 
closing the sentence in a whisper — “ ay, my boy, and may 
even enable me to overcome this sorceress — this tigress, 
if you prefer it — make her forget that she is a wife — for- 
get everything, but the days when I taught her her first 
lessons in loving !” 

“ Sharpe,” exclaimed the other in a sort of husky hor- 
ror, “ you are a perfect dare-devil, to speak so in the very 
den of the lion ? ’ 

“ Ay, but it is while thinking of the lioness.” 

“ Keep me from the claws of both !” ejaculated Barnabas, 
with an honest terror, as he struck spurs into the flanks of 
his horse. 

“ I do not now feel as if I feared either !” replied the 
other. 


REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 


301 


“ Don’t halloo till out of the woods !” 

“No! — but, Barnabas, do you really think that this 
woman is sincere in giving me up ?” 

“ Surely 1 How can I think otherwise ?” 

“ Ah, my boy, you know nothing of the sex.” 

“ Well — but she has told him all. How do you explain 
that ?” 

“ She has had her reasons. She perhaps finds, or fan- 
cies, that Beauchampe suspects. She hopes to blind him 
by this apparent frankness. She’s not in earnest.” 

“ D — n such manoeuvring, say I!” 

“Give us time, Barnabas — time, my boy, and I shall 
have her at my feet yet ! I do not doubt that, with the 
help of some of our boys, I shall baffle him ; and I will 
never lose sight of her while I have sight. I have felt 
more passion for that woman than I ever felt for any wo- 
man yet, or ever expect to feel for another ; and, if scheme 
and perseverance will avail for anything, she shall vet be 
mine !” 

“ If such were your feelings for her, why didn’t you man . 
her in Charlemont ?” 

“So I would have done — if it had been necessary; 
but who pays for his fruit when he can get it for noth 
ing ?” 

“ True,” replied the other, evidently struck by the force 
of this dictum in moral philosophy — “that’s very true; 
but the fruit has its Argus now, if it had not then ; and the 
paws of Briareus may be upon your throat, if you look 
too earnestly over the wall. My counsel to you is, briefly, 
that you arrive with all possible speed at the faith of the 
fox.” 

“ What ! sour grapes ? No, no, Barnabas ! — the grapes 
are sweet — as I do not think them entirely out of reach. 
As for the dragon, we shall yot contrive to ‘ calm the ter- 
rors of his olaws.’ ” 

So speaking, they rode out of sight, the courage of ooth 


302 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


rising as they receded from the place of danger. Whether 
Sharpe really resolved on the reckless course which he 
expressed to his companion, or simply sought, with the 
inherent vanity of a small man, to excite the wonder of the 
latter, is of no importance to our narrative. In either 
case, his sense of morals and of society is equally and 
easily understood. 


CHALLU«,^E. 


303 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

CHALLENGE. 

Colonel Sharpe sat, one pleasant forenoon, in the snug 
parlor of his elegant mansion in the good city of Frank- 
fort. It was a dies non with him. He had leisure, and 
his leisure was a leisure which had its sauce. It was a 
satisfactory leisure. The prospect of wealth with dignity 
was before him. Clients were numerous ; fees liberal ; 
his political party had achieved its triumph, and his own 
commission as attorney-general of the state was made out 
in the fairest characters. The world went on swimmingly. 
Truly, it was a blessed world. So one may fancy, with 
the wine and walnuts before him. Ah, how much of the 
beauty of this visible world depends on one’s dessert — and 
digestion ! 

Colonel Sharpe’s dessert was excellent, but his digestion 
not so good. Nay, there were some things that he could 
not digest ; but of these, at the pleasant moment when we 
have thought proper to look in upon him, he did not think. 
His thoughts were rather agreeable than otherwise ; per- 
haps we should say, rather exciting than agreeable. They 
were less sweet than piquant ; but they were such as he 
did not seek to disperse. A man of the world relishes his 
bitters occasionally. It is your long-legged lad of eighteen 
VI ho purses his lips while his eyes run water, as he imbibes 
the acrid but spicy flavor. Colonel Sharpe was no such 
boy. He could linger over the draught, and sip, with a 


304 


BEAUOHAMPE. 


sense of relish, from the mingling but not discordant ele- 
ments. He was no milksop. He had renounced the natu 
ral tastes at a very early day. 

He thought of Margaret Cooper — we should say Mrs. 
Beauchampe, but that, when he recalled her to his memory, 
she always came in the former, never in the latter charac- 
ter. He did not like to think of her as the wife of another. 
The reflection made him sore ; though, to think of her was 
always a source of pleasure in a greater or less degree. But 
he had not forgotten the husband ; and now, in connection 
with the wife, he felt himself unavoidably compelled to 
think of him. His countenance assumed a meditative as- 
pect. There was a gathering frown upon his brow in spite 
of his successes. At this moment a rap was heard at the 
door, and Mr. Barnabas was announced. 

“ Ha! Barnabas — how d’ye do?” 

“ Well — when did you get back ?” 

“ Last night, after dark.” 

“Yes — I looked in yesterday and you were not hai 
then. What news bring you ?” 

“ None ! Have you any here ?” 

“ As little. It’s enough to know that all’s right. We ar^ 
quite joyful here — nothing to dash our triumph.” 

“That’s well, and our triumph is complete; but”— 
with an air of abstraction — “ what do you hear of Beau^ 
champe ?” 

“ Not a word — but he’s in Frankfort!” 

“ Ha ! indeed !” 

“ Was here two days ago. Haven’t you heard from him ?” 

“ Not a syllable.” 

“ But how could you — going to and fro, and so brief a 
time in any place, it was scarcely possible to find you !” 

“ I doubt if he’ll do anything, Barnabas. The affair 
will be made so much worse by stirring. He’ll not think 
of it — he’s very proud — very sensitive — very sensible to 
ridicule !” 


CHALLENGE. 


306 


“ I don’t know. I hope he won’t. But he’s as strange 
an animal as the woman, his wife ; and, I tell you, there 
was a damned sour seriousness about him when he spoke to 
me on the subject, that makes me apprehensive that he’ll 
keep his word. The ides of March are not over yet.” 

Sharpe’s gravity increased. His friend rose to depart. 

Where do you go ?” 

“ To Folker’s. I have some business there. I just heard 
that you were here, and looked in to say how happy we all 
are in our successes.” 

“ You will sup with me to-night, Barnabas. I want you : 
I feel dull.” 

“ The devil you do — what, and just made attorney- 
general !” 

“ Even so ! Honors are weighty.” 

“Not the less acceptable for that. Glamis thou art — 
Cawdor shalt be — and let me be your weird sister, and 
proclaim, yet further — ‘Thou shalt be king hereafter!’ 
governor, I mean.” 

“ Ah ! you are sharp, this morning, Barnabas,” said 
Sharpo, his muscles relaxing into a pleasant smile. “ I 
shall ex pect you to-night, if it be only to hear the repetition 
of these agreeable predictions.” 

“ I will not fail you 1 addio 1” 

Colonel Sharpe sat once more alone. Pleasant indeed 
were the fancies which the words of Mr. Barnabas had 
awakened in his mind. He murmured in the strain of dra- 
matic language, which the quotation of his friend had sug- 
gested, as ha paced the apartment to and fro : — 

** ‘ I know I'm thane of Glamis, 

Bnt how of Cawdor — 

— Aud to be king, 

not within the proonect of belief.' 

Ay, but it doec •r he proceeded in the more sober prose of 
his own reflections ; “ The steps are fair and easy. Bar- 


306 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


nabas is no fool in such matters, though no wit. He knows 
the people. He can sound them as well as any man. This 
suggestion does not come from himself. No — no! It 
comes from a longer head. It must be Clay ! Hem ! this 
is to be thought upon! His word against a thousand 
pounds ! If he thinks so, it is as good as done ; and Barna- 
bas is only an echo, when he says, ‘ Thou shalt be king 
hereafter !’ Poor Barnabas ! how readily he takes his 
color from his neighbor.” 

A rap at the door arrested these pleasant reflections. 
The soliloquist started and grew pale. There was surely a 
meaning in that rap. It was not that of an ordinary ac- 
quaintance. It wanted freedom, rapidity. It was very 
deliberate and measured. One — two — three ! — you could 
count freely in the intervals. A strange voice was heard at 
the door. 

“ Colonel Sharpe is in town — is ho at home !” 

The servant answered in the affirmative, and appeared a 
moment after, followed by a stranger — a gentleman of dark, 
serious complexion, whose face almost declared his busi- 
ness. The host felt an unusual degree of discomposure for 
which he could not so easily account. 

“ Be seated, sir, if you please. I have not the pleasure 
of your name.” 

“ Covington, sir, is my name — John A. Covington.” 

“ Covington — John A. Covington 1 I have t^e pleasure 
of knowing a gentleman whose name very mucli resemblos 
yours. I know John W. Covington.” 

‘‘ I am a very different person,” answered the stranger. 
— “I have not the honor of being ranked among your 
friends. 

The stranger spoke very coldly. A b.uef pause followed 
his words, in which Colonel Sharpens Ji-jiomposure rather 
underwent increase. The keen eya cf Covington observed 
his face, while he very deliberately drew from his pocket a 


CHALLENGE. 307 

paper which he handed to Sharpe, who took it with very 
sensible agitation of nerve. 

“ Do me the favor, sir, to read that. It is from Mr. 
Beauchampe. He tells me you are prepared for it. It is 
open, you see : I am aware of its contents.” 

“ From Beauchampe — ” 

‘‘ Mr. Beauchampe, sir,” said the visiter, coolly correct 
ing the freedom of the speaker. 

“ This paper, as you will see by the date, sir, has bee .. 
some time in my hands. Your absence in the country, alone 
prevented its delivery.” 

“Yes, sir” — said Sharpe, slowly, and turning over the 
envelope — “ yes, sir ; this, I perceive, is a peremptory 
challenge, sir ?” 

“ It is.” 

“ But, Mr. Covington, there may be explanations, sir.” 

“ None, sir ! Mr. Beauchampe tells me that this is impos- 
sible. He adds, moreover, that you know it. There is but 
one issue, he assures me between you, and that is life or 
death.” 

“ Really, sir, there is no good reason for this. Mr. Cov- 
ington, you are a man of the world. You know what is 
due to society. You will not lend yourself to any meas- 
ure of unnecessary bloodshed. You have a right, sir — 
surely you have a right, sir, to interpose, and accept some 
more qualified atonement — perhaps, sir — an apology — 
the expression of my sincere regret and sorrow, sir — ” 

The other shook his head coldly — 

“ My friend leaves me none.” 

“ But, sir, if you knew the cause of this hostility — if — ” 

“ I do sir !” was the stern reply. 

“ Indeed ! But are you sure that you have heard it ex- 
actly as it is. There are causes which qualify offence — ” 

“ I believe, Mr. Beauchampe, sir, in preference to any 
other witness. This offence, sir, admits of none. You will 
permit me to add', though extra-official, that my friend deals 


308 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


with you very magnanimously. The provocation is of a 
sort which deprives you of any claim of courtesy. May I 
. avc your answer, sir, to the only point to which this let- 
ter relates ! Will you refer me to your friend ?” 

‘‘Sir — Mr. Covington — I will not fght Mr. Beau- 
cnampe !” 

“ Indeed, sir ! — can it be possible !’ exclaimed Coving- 
ton, rising from his chair and regarding the speaker with 
surprise. 

“ No, sir ! I can not fight him. I have wronged him too 
greatly. I can not lift weapon against his life !” 

“ Colonel Sharpe — this will never do ! You are a Ken- 
tuckian ! You are regarded as a Kentucky gentleman ! I 
say nothing on the score of your claim to this character. 
Let me remind you of the penalties which will follow this 
refusal to do my friend justice.” 

“ I know them, sir — I know them all. I defy them — 
will bear them, but I can not fight Beauchampe !” 

“ You will be disgraced, sir : I must post you !” 

Sharpe strode the apartment hastily. His cheek was 
flushed. He felt the humiliation of his position. In ordi- 
nary matters, in the usual spirit of society, he was no 
coward. We have seen how readily he fought with Wil- 
liam Calvert. But he could not meet Beauchampe — he 
could not nerve himself to the encounter. 

“ I can not, will not fight Beauchampe !” was his mut- 
tered ejaculation. “No! I have wronged him — wronged 
her ! I dare not meet him. I can never do it 1” 

“ Be not rash, Colonel Sharpe,” said the other. “ Think 
of it again before you give me such an answer. I will 
give you three hours for deliberation : I will call again at 
four.” 

“ No, sir — no, Mr. Covington — the wrongs I have done 
to Beauchampe are known — probably well known. The 
world will understand that I can not fight him — that my 
ofience is of such a nature, that, to lift weapon against him^ 


CHALLENGE. 


309 


would be monstrous. You may post me, sir ; but no one 
who knows me will believe that it is fear that makes me 
deny this meeting. They will know all ; they will acquit 
me of the imputation of cowardice.” 

“ And how should they know,” demanded Covington 
sternly, “ unless you make them acquainted with the facts, 
and thus add another to my friend’s causes of provoca- 
tion ?” 

“ Nay, Mr. Covington, he himself told Mr. Barnabas.” 

“ True, sir ; but that was in a special communication to 
yourself, which implied confidence, and must have secrecy. 
My friend will have his remedy against Mr. Barnabas, if he 
does not against you, if he speaks what he should not. 
There is a way, sir, to muzzle your barking dogs.” 

“ It is known to others — Mr. William Calvert, with whom 
I fought on this very quarrel.” 

“ Ah ! that is new to me ; but as you fought in this very 
quarrel with Mr. Calvert, it seems to me that your objec- 
tion fails. You must fight with Mr. Beauchampe also on 
the same quarrel.” 

Never, sir ! You have my answer — I will not meet 
him .'” 

“ Do not mistake your position with the public. Colonel 
Sharpe. The extent of the wrong which you have done to 
Beauchampe only makes your accountability the greater. 
Nobody will acquit you on this score ; nay, any efibrt to 
make known to the people the true cause of Mr. Beau- 
champe’ s hostility will make it obvious that you seek rather 
to excuse your cowardice, than to show forbearance. Or to 
make atonement. Truly, they will regard that as a very 
strange sort of remorse which publishes the shame of the 
wife in order to justify a refusal to meet the husband !” 

“I will not publish it — Beauchampe has already done 
so.” 

“ It is known to two persons, sir, through him. It need 
not be known to more. Colonel Calvert is a friend of mine. 


310 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


He is not the man to speak of the affair. Besides, I will 
communicate to him on the subject, and secure his silence. 
You shall have no refuge of this sort.’’ 

“I have answered you, Mr. Covington,” said Sharpe, 
doggedly. 

“ I must post you, then, as a scoundrel and a coward !” 

Sharpe turned upon the speaker with a look of suddenly- 
roused fury in his face, but, swallowing the word which 
rose to his lips, he turned away. The other proceeded 
coolly : — 

This shall be done, sir ; and I must warn you that the 
affair will not end here. Mr. Beauchampe will disgrace 
you in the public streets.” 

The sweat trickled from the brows of Sharpe in thick 
drops such as precede the torrents of the thunderstorm. 
He strove to speak, but the convulsive emotions of his 
bosom effectually baffled utterance ; and, with dilated eyes 
and laboring breast, he strode the floor, utterly incapable 
of self-control. Covington lingered. 

“ You will repent this, Colonel Sharpe. You will recall 
me when too late. Suffer me to see you this afternoon for 
your answer.” 

The other advanced to him, then turned away ; once 
more approached, and again receded. A terrible strife 
was at work within him ; but, when he did find words, they 
expressed no bolder determination than before. Covington 
regarded him with equal pity and contempt, as he turned 
away evidently dissatisfied and disappointed. 

He was scarcely gone when the miserable man found 
words : — 

“ God of heaven, that I should feel thus ! — that I should 
be so unmanned ! Why is this ? why is the strength de- 
nied me — the courage — which never failed before ? It is 
not too late. He has scarcely left the step ! I will recall 
him. He shall have another answer !” — and, with this late 
resolution, he darted to the entrance and laid his hand upon 


CHALLENGE. 


311 


the knob of the door ; but the momentary impulse had al- 
ready departed. He left it unopened. He recoiled from 
the entrance, and, striking his hands against his forehead, 
groaned in all the novel and unendurable bitterness of this 
unwonted humiliation. 

“And this is the man — Cawdor, Glamis, all! — king 
hereafter, too, as Mr. Barnabas promised — echoing, of 
course, the language of that great political machinist, Mr. 
Clay. Ha! ha! haT’ 

Did some devil growl this commentary in the ears of the 
miserable man ? He heard it, and shuddered from head 
to foot. 


312 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

PROGRESS OP PASSION. 

Let nobody imagine that a sense of shame implies re- 
morse or repentance. Nay, let them not be sure that it 
implies anything like forbearance in the progress of offence. 
It was not so with our attorney-general. The moment he 
recovered, in any fair degree, his composure, he despatched 
a messenger for his friend Barnabas. He, good fellow, 
came at the first summons. We will not say that his foot- 
steps were not absolutely quickened by the recclloction 
that it was just then the dinner-hour; and, possibly, some 
fancy took possession of his mind, leading him to the strange 
but pleasant notion that Sharpe had suddenly stumbled 
upon some bonne houche in the market-place, of particular 
excellence, of which he was very anxious that his friend 
should partake. The supper, be it remarked, was no less 
an obligation still ! Conceptive Mr. Barnabas ! Certainly, 
he had some such idea. The bonne bouche quickened his 
movements. He ca: le seasonably. The dinner was not 
consumed; perhapc not quite ready: but, for the bonne 
bouche — alas ! Sic transit gloria mundi ! 

Such is the inscription, at least, upon this one pleasant 
hope of our amiable philosopher. There was a morsel for 
his digestion, or rather for that of his friendly entertainer ; 
but, unhappily, it w^s one that neither was well prepared 
to swallow. Mr. Barnabas was struck dumb by the intelli- 
gence which he heard. He wc^s not surprised that Beau- 


PROGRESS OP PASSION. 


champe had sent a challenge : his surprise, amounting to 
utter consternation, was that his friend should have refused 
it. He was so accustomed to the usual bold carriage of 
Colonel Sharpe — knew so well his ordinary promptness — 
nay, had seen his readiness on former occasions to do bat> 
tie, right or wrong, with word or weapon — that he was 
taken all aback with wonder at a change so sudden and 
unexpected. Besides, it must be recollected that Mr. Bar- 
nabas was brought up in that school of an earlier period, 
throughout the whole range of southern and western coun- 
try, which rendered it the point of honor to yield redress 
at the first summons, and in whatever form the sumraoner 
pleased to require. That school was still one of authority, 
not merely with Mr. Barnabas, but with the country ; and 
the loss of caste was one of those terrible social conse- 
quences of any rejection of this authority which he had not 
the courage to consider without absolute horror. When 
he did speak, the friends had changed places. They no 
longer stood in the old relation to each other. Instead of 
Colonel Sharpe’s being the superior will, while that of 
Barnabas was submission, the latter grew suddenly strong, 
almost commanding. 

“ But, Sharpe, you must meet him. By Jupiter, it won’t 
do ! You’re disgraced for ever, if you don’t. You can’t 
escape. You must fight him.” 

“ I can not, Barnabas ! I was never so unnerved in my 
life before. I can not meet him. I can not lift weapon 
against the husband of Margaret Cooper.” 

“ Be it so ; but, at all events, receive his fire.” 

“ Even for this I am unprepared. I tell you, Barnabas, 
I never felt so like a cur in all my life. I never knew till 
now what it was to fear.” 

‘‘ Shake it off ; it’s only a passing feeling. When you’re 
up, and facing him, you will cease to feel so.” 

The other shook his head with an expression of utter 
despair and self-abandonment. 

14 


314 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ By God, I know better !’’ exclaimed Barnabas warmly ; 

Fve seen you on the ground — I’ve seen you fight. There 
wr.s that chap Calvert — ” 

“ Barnabas, it is in vain that you expostulate. I have 
fought — have been in frequent strifes with men, and brave 
men too — but never knew such feelings as oppress me now, 
and have oppressed me ever since I had this message. Bo 
not suppose me insensible to the shame. It burns in my 
brain with agony ; it rives my bosom with a choking and 
continual spasm. A hundred times, since Covington has 
been gone, have I started up with the view to sending him 
a message, declaring myself ready to meet his friend ; but 
as often has this cursed feeling come upon me, paralyzing 
the momentary courage, and depriving me of all power of 
action. I feel that I can not meet Beauchampe — I feel 
that I dare not.” 

“ Great God ! what are we to do ? Think, my dear fel- 
low, what is due to your station — to your position in the 
party ! Remember, you are just now made attorney-gen- 
eral : you are the observed of all observers. Everything 
depends upon what exhibition you make now. Get over 
this difficulty — man yourself for this meeting — and the 
rest is easy. Another year puts you at the very head of 
the party.” 

“ I have thought of all these things, Barnabas ; and one 
poor month ago, had an angel of heaven come and assured 
me that they would have failed to provoke me to the en- 
counter with any foe, however terrible, I should have flouted 
the idle tidings. Now, I can not.” 

“ You must ! What will they say at the club ? You’ll 
be expelled, Sharpe — think of that! You’ll be cut by 
every member. Covington will post you. Nay, ten to one 
but Beauchampe will undertake to horsewhip you.” 

“ I trust I shall find courage to face him then, Barnabas, 
though I could not now. Look you, Barnabas — something 
can be done in another way. Beauchampe can be acted on.” 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 


315 


How — how can that be done ?” 

‘‘ Two or three judicious fellows can manage it It is 
only to show him that any prosecution of this affair neces- 
sarily leads to the public disgrace of his wife. It is easy 
to show him that, though he may succeed in dishonoring 
me, the very act that does it is a public advertisement of 
her shame.” 

So it is,” said the other. 

“ Something more, Barnabas. It might be intimated to 
Covington that, as Margaret Cooper had a child — ” 

Did she, indeed ?” 

“So I ascertained by accident. She had on* bet'ore 
leaving Charlemont.” 

“Indeed! — well?” 

“ Well — it might have the effect of making him quiet 
show him that this child was — ” 

The rest of the sentence was whispered in the ears of his 
companion. 

“ The d — 1 it was !” exclaimed the other. “ But is that 
certain, Sharpe ? — for, if so, it acquits you altogether. The 
color alone would be conclusive.” 

“ Certainly it would. Now, some hint of this kind to 
Covington, or to Beauchampe himself — ” 

“ By Jupiter, I shouldn’t like to be the man to tell him, 
however ! He’s such a bulldog !” 

“ Through his friend, then. It might be done, Barna- 
bas ; and it can’t be doubted that the dread of such a report 
would effectually discourage him from any prosecution of 
this business.” 

“ So it might ~ so it would ; but — ” 

“ Barnabas, you must get it done.” 

“ But, my dear colonel — ” 

“You must save me, Barnabas — relieve me of this diffi- 
culty. You know my power — my political power — you 
see my strength. I can serve you— you can not doubt my 


J516 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


willingness to serve you; but if this power is lost — if ^ 
am disgraced by this fellow — we are all lost.” 

“Truj — very true. It must be done. I will see to it. 
Make yourself easy. I will set about it as soon as dinner’s 
over.” 

Here the politic Mr. Barnabas looked round with an 
anxious questioning of the eye, which Colonel Sharpe un- 
derstood. 

Ah ! dinner — I had not thought of that, but it must be 
ieady. Of course, you will stay and dine with me.” 

‘‘ Why, yes — though I have some famous mutton-chops 
awaiting jne at home.” 

“ Mine are doubtlessly as good.” 

We shall leave the friends to their pottage, without any 
‘j jecessary inquiry into the degree of appetite which they 
severally brought to its discussion. It may not be imper- 
tinent, however, to intimate, as a mere probability, that 
Mr. Barnabas, in the discussion of the affair, was the most 
able analyst of the two. The digestion of Colonel Sharpe 
was, at this period, none of the best. We have said as 
much before. 

For that matter, neither was Beauchampe’s. The return 
of Covington, with the wholly ujiexpected refusal of Colonel 
Sharpe to meet and give him redress, utterly confounded 
him. Of course, he had the usual remedies. There was 
the poster — which may be termed a modern letter of credit 
— a sort of certificate of character, in one sense — carrying 
with it some such moral odor as, in the physical world, is 
communicated by the whizzing of a pullet’s egg, addled in 
June, directed at the lantern visage of a long man, honored 
with a high place in the public eye, though scarcely at ease 
(because of his modesty), in the precious circumference of 
the pillory. 

Beauchampe’s friend was bound to post Colonel Sharpe. 
Beauchampe himself had the privilege of obliterating his 
shame, by making certain cancelli on the back of the 


PROGRESS OP PASSION. 317 

wrong-doer, with the skin of a larger but less respectable 
animal. 

But were these remedies to satisfy Beauchampe ? The 
cowskin might draw blood from the back of his enemy ; but 
was that the blood which he had sworn to draw ? His oath ! 
his oath ! that was the difficulty ! The refusal of Colonel 
Sharpe to meet him in personal combat left his oath unob- 
literated — uncomplied with. The young man was bewil- 
dered by his rage and disappointment. This was an unan- 
ticipated dilemma. 

“ What is to be done, Covington ?” 

“ Post him, at the courthouse, jail, and every hotel in 
town.” 

“ Post him — and what’s the good of that?” 

“ You disgrace him for ever !” 

“ That will not answer — that is nothing !” 

“ You can go further. Horsewhip him — cowskin him- 
cut his back to ribands, whenever you meet him in the open 
thoroughfare !” 

“ Did you tell him that I would do so ?” 

“ I did !” 

“ It did not move him ? What said he then ?” 

“Still the same! He would not fight you — could not 
lift weapon against your life.” 

“The villain! — the black-hearted, base, miserable vil- 
lain ? Covington, you will go with me ?” 

“Surely! You mean to post him, or cowhide him — or 
both ?” 

“ No, no ! That’s not what I mean. I must have his 
blood — his life !” 

“ That’s quite another matter, Beauchampe. I do not 
see that you can do more than I have told you. He is a 
coward : you must proclaim him as such. Your poster 
does that. He is a villain — has wronged you. You will 
punish him for the wrong. Your horsewhip does that! 
You can do no more, Beauchampe.” 


318 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Ay, but I must, Covington. Your poster is nothing, 
and the whip is nothing. I am sworn to take his life or 
lose my own P’ 

“ I can do no more than I have told you. I will back 
you to this extent — no further.^’ 

“ I can force him to fight me,” said Beauchampe. 

“ In what way ?” 

“ By assaulting him with my weapon, after offering him 
another.” 

“ How, if he refuses to receive it ?” 

“ He can not — surely — he will not refuse.” 

“ He will ! I tell you, he will refuse. The man is ut- 
terly frightened. 1 never witnessed such unequivocal signs 
of cowardice in any man.” 

“ Then is he wonderfully changed.” 

A servant entered at this moment, and handed Beau 
champe a letter. It was from his wife. Its contents were 
brief : — 

. . . . “ I do not hear from you, Beauchampe — I do not 
see you. You were to have returned yesterday. Come 
to me. Let me see you once more. I tremble for your 
safety.” .... 

The traces of an agony which the words did not express 
were clearly shown in the irregular, sharp lines of the 
epistle. 

“ I will go to her at once. 1 will meet you to-morrow, 
Covington, when we will discuss this matter further.” 

“ The sooner you take the steps I propose, the better,” 
said Covington. ‘‘ The delay of a day to post him, is, 
perhaps, nothing; but you must not permit the lapse of 
more.” 

“ I shall not post him, Covington. That would seem to 
mock my vengeance, and to preclude it. No, no ! posting 
will not do. The scourging may ; brd even that does not 
satisfy me now. To-iiorrow— we shall meet to-morrow.” 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 


319 


Let us go with the husband and rejoin Mrs. Beauchampe. 
A week had wrought great changes in her appearance. 
Her eyes have sunken, and the glazed intensity of their 
stare is almost that of madness. Her voice is slow — subdued 
almost to a whisper. 

“ It is not done she said, her lip touching his ear — 
her hands clasping his convulsively. 

“ No ! the miserable wretch refuses to fight with me.” 
She recoiled as she exclaimed — 

“ And did you expect that he would fight you ? Did you 
look for manhood or manly courage at his hands ?” 

“ Ay, but he shall meet me !” exclaimed Beauchampe, 
who perceived, in this short sentence, the true character of 
the duty which lay before him. “ I will find him, at least, 
and you shall be avenged ! He shall not escape me longer 
His blood or mine.” 

“ Stay ! go not, Beauchampe ! Risk nothing. Let me 
be the victim still. Your life is precious to me — more 
precious than my own name. Why should you forfeit sta- 
tion, pride, peace, safety — everything for me ? Leave me, 
dear Beauchampe — leave me to my shame — leave me to 
despair !” 

“Never! never! You are my life. Losing you I lose 
more than life — all that can make it precious ! I will not 
lose you. Whatever happens, you are mine to the last.” 

“To the last, Beauchampe — thine — only thine — to the 
last — the last — the last !” 

She sunk into his arms. He pressed his lips upon hers, 
and drawing the dirk from his bosom, he elevated it above 
her head, while he mentally renewed his oath of retribution.. 
This done, he released her from his grasp, placed her in a 
seat, and, once more, pressing his lips to hers, he darted 
from the dwelling. In a few seconds more the sound of his 
horse’s feet were heard, and she started from her seat, and 
from the stupor which seemed to possess her faculties. She 
hurried to the window. He had disappeared. 


320 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ He is gone !” she exclaimed, pressing her hand upon 
her forehead, “ He is gone ! gone for what ? Ha ! I have 
sent him. I have sent him on this bloody work. Oh! 
surely it is madness that moves me thus ! It must be mad- 
ness. Why should he murder Alfred Stevens ? What good 
will come of it ? What safety ? What — But why should 
he not ? Are we never to be free ? Is he to thrust him- 
self into our homes for ever — to baffle our hopes — destroy 
our peace — point his exulting finger to the hills of Charle- 
mont, and cry aloud, ‘ Remember — there’ ? No 1 better he 
should die, and we should all die I Strike him, Beau- 
champe ! Strike and fear nothing ! Strike deep 1 Strike 
to the very heart — strike ! strike 1 strike 1” 

Why should we look longer on this mournful spectacle. 
Yet the world will not willingly account this madness. It 
matters not greatly by what name you call a passion which 
has broken bounds, and disdains the right angles of con 
vention. Let us leave the wife for the husband. 


THE AVENGER. 


321 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE AVENGER. 

Was Beauchampe any more sane — we should phrase it 
otherwise — was he any less mad than his wife ? 

Perhaps he was more so. The simple inquiry which 
Mrs. Beauchampe had made, when he told her that Sharpe 
refused to fight him, had opened his eyes to all the terrible 
responsibility to which his unhappy oath had subjected him. 
When he had pledged himself to take the life of her be- 
trayer, he had naturally concluded that this pledge implied 
nothing more than the resolution to meet with his enemy in 
the duel. That a Kentucky gentleman should shrink from 
such an issue did not for a moment enter his thoughts ; and 
it is not improbable but that, if he could have conjectured 
this possibility, he had not so readily yielded to the condi- 
tion which she had coupled with her consent to be his wife. 

But, after this, when in his own house, and under the 
garb of friendship, Colonel Sharpe labored to repeat his 
crime, still less could he have believed it possible that the 
criminal would refuse the only mode of atonement, which, 
according to the practices of that society to which they 
both were accustomed, was left within his power to make. 
Had he apprehended this, he would have chosen the most 
direct mode of vengeance — such as the social sense every- 
where would have justified — and put the offender to death 
upon the very hearth which he had striven to dishonor. 
14 * 


322 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


That he had not done so, was now his topic of self-reproach. 
An idea, whether true or false, of what was due to a guest, 
had compelled him to forbear, and to send the criminal 
forth, with every opportunity to prepare himself for the 
penalties which his offences had incurred. 

Still, up to this moment, he had not contemplated the 
necessity of lifting his weapon except on equal terms, with 
the enemy whose life he sought. In fair fight he had no 
hesitation at this ; but, as a murderer, to strike the unde- 
fended bosom —however criminal ; however deserving of 
death — was a view of the case equally unexpected and 
painful. It was one for which his previous reflections had 
not prepared him ; and, the excitement under which he 
labored in consequence, was one, that, if it did not madden 
him deprived him at least of all wholesome powers of re- 
flection. 

While he rode to Frankfort, he went as one in a cloud. 
He saw nothing to the right or the left. The farmer, his 
neighbor, spoke to him, but he only turned as if impatient 
at some interruption, but, without answering, put spurs 
again to the flanks of his horse, and darted off with a wilder 
speed than ever. An instinct, rather than a purpose, when 
he reached Frankfort, carried him to the lodgings of his 
friend Covington. 

“ And what do you mean to do demanded the latter. 

“Kill him — there is nothing else to be done !” 

“ My dear Beauchampe — you must not think of such a 
thing.” 

“ Ay, but I must : why should I not ? Tell me that. 
Shall such a monster live ?” 

“ There are good reasons why you should not kill him. 
If you do, unless in very fair fight, you will not only be 
tried, but found guilty of the murder.” 

“ I know not that. His crime — ” 

“ Deserves death and should have found it at the time ! 
Had you put him to death when he was in your house, and 


THE AVENGER. 


323 


made the true cause known, the jury must have justified 
you; but you allowed the moment of provocation to pa£ 3 ,” 

“ Such a moment can not pass.” 

“ Ay, but it can and does ! Time, they say, cools the 
blood !” 

“ Nonsense ! When every additional moment of thought 
adds to the fever.” 

“ They reason otherwise. Nay, more — just now that 
feeling of party runs too high. Already, they have trum- 
peted it about that Calvert sought to kill Sharpe on the 
score of his attachment to Desha. They made the grounds 
of that affair political, when, it seems to have been purely 
your own ; and if you should attempt and succeed in such 
a thing, he would be considered a martyr to the party, and 
you would inevitably become its victim.” 

“ Covington, do you think that I am discouraged by this ? 
Do you suppose I fear death ? No ! If the gallows were 
already raised — if the executioner stood by — if I saw the 
felon-cart, and the gloating throng around, gathered to be- 
hold my agonies, I would still strike, strike fatally, and 
without fear !” 

“ I know you brave, Beauchampe ; but such a death 
might well appal the bravest man !” 

“ It does not appal me. Understand me, Covington, I 
must slay this man !” 

“ T can not understand you, Beauchampe. As your friend 
I will not. I counsel you against the deed. I counsJ you 
purely with regard to your own safety.” 

“ As a friend, would you have me live dishonored ?” 

No ! I have already counselled you how to transfer the 
. ishrnor from your shoulders to his. Denounce him for his 
crime — disgrace him by the scourge !” 

“ No ! no ! Covington — this is no redress — no remedy. 
His blood only^can wipe o jt that shame.” 

‘ I will have nothing to do \7ith it, Beauchampe.” 

Will you desert me ?” 


324 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Not if you adopt the usual mode. Take your horse- 
whip, arm yourself ; give Sharpe notice to prepare ; and it 
is not impossible, then, that he will be armed, and the ren- 
contre may be as fatal as you could desire it. I am ready 
for you to this extent.’’ 

“ Be it so, then ! Believe me, Covington, I would rather 
a thousand times risk my own life than be compelled to 
take his without resistance. But understand one thing. 
He or I must perish ! We can not both survive.” 

“ I will strive to bring it about,” said the other ; and, 
urged by the impatience of Beauchampe, he proceeded, a 
second time, to give Colonel Sharpe the necessary no- 
tice. 

But Sharpe was not to be found. He was denied at his 
own dwelling as in town ; and Covington took the way to 
the house of his arch-vassal Mr. Barnabas. The latter 
gentleman confirmed the intelligence. He stated, not only 
that Sharpe had left town, but had proceeded to Bowling- 
Green. 

Covington did not conceal his object. Knowing the char- 
acter of Barnabas, and his relation to Sharpe, he addressed 
himself to the fears of both. 

“ Mr. Barnabas, it will be utterly impossible for Colonel 
Sharpe to avoid this affair. Beauchampe will force it upon 
him. He will degrade him daily in the streets of Frank- 
fort : he will brand him with the whip in the sight of the 
people. You know the effect of this upon a man’s charac- 
ter and position.” 

“ Certainly, sir ; but, Mr. Covington, Mr. Beauchampe 
will do so at his peril.” 

‘'To be sure — he knows that; but, with such wrongr 
as Mr. Beauchampe has had to sustain, he knows no peril 
He will certainly do what I tell you.” 

“But, Mr. Covington — my dear sir — can not this be 
avoided ? Is there no other remedy ? Will no apeugy — 
no atonement of Colonel Sharpe — suppose a written apol- 


THE AVENGER. 325 

ogy — most humble and penitent — to Mr. and Mrs. Beau- 
champe — ’’ 

‘‘ Impossible ! How could you think that such an apol- 
ogy could atone for such an offence? — first, the seduc- 
tion of this lady, while yet unmarried; and, next, the 
abominable renewal of the attempt when she had become a 
wife 1” 

‘ But nobody believes this, Mr. Covington. It is gen- 
erally understood that the first offence is the only one to 
be laid at Sharpe’s door, and this is to be urged only 
on political grounds. Beauchampe supported Tompkins 
against Desha, and the friends of Tompkins revive this 
stale offence only to discredit Sharpe as the friend of the 
former.” 

“ Mr. Barnabas, you know better. You know that Beau- 
champe was the friend of Sharpe, and spoke against Cal- 
vert in his defence. We also know, as well as you, that 
Calvert and Sharpe fought on account of this very lady ; 
though Desha’s friends have contrived to make it appear 
that the combat had a political origin.” 

“ Well, Mr. Covington, my knowledge is one thing — 
that of the people another. I can only tell you that it is 
very generally believed that the true cause of the affair is 
political.” 

“ And how has this general knowledge been obtained, 
Mr. Barnabas ?” remarked Covington rather sternly. “ As 
the friend of Beauchampe, and the only one to whom he has 
confided his feelings and wishes, I can answer for it that 
no publicity has been given to this affair by us.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Barnabas, hurriedly, “ how the 
report has got abroad. I only know that it is very gen- 
eral.” 

Ml*. Covington rose to depart. 

‘‘ Let me, before leaving you, Mr. Barnabas, advise you, 
as one of the nearest friends of Colonel Sharpe, what he is 
to expect. Mr. Beauchampe will take the road of him, and 


326 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


will horsewhip him through the streets of Frankfort on th 
first occasion — nay, on every occasion — till he is prepared 
to fight him. I am free to add, for the benefit of any of 
Colonel Sharpe’s friends, that I will accompany him when- 
ever he proposes to make tliis attempt.” 

And, with this knightly intimation, Mr. Covington tooir 
his departure. 

When Beauchampe heard that Sharpe had left town, anc 
gone to Bowling-Green, he immediately jumped on his hors 
and went off in the same direction. 

That very afternoon, Mr. Barnabas sat with his friend 
Colonel Sharpe over a bottle, and at the town-house of the 
latter ! It had been a falsehood by which Beauchampe was 
sent on a wild-goose chase into the country. The object 
was to gain time, so as to enable the friends of both par- 
ties, or rather the friends of the criminal, who were mem- 
bers of the club, to interpose and effect an arrangement of 
the affair, if such a thing were possible ; and, in the natural 
gratification which Sharpe felt that the danger was parried, 
though for a moment only, the spirits of the criminal rose 
into vivacity. The two made themselves merry with the 
unfruitful journey which the avenger was making ; not con- 
sidering the effect of such manoeuvring upon a temper so 
excitable, nor allowing for the accumulation of those pas- 
sions which, as they can not sleep, and can not be subdued, 
necessarily become more powerful in proportion to the de- 
lay in their utterance, and the restraints to which they are 
subjected. 

Of course, Mr. Barnabas made a full report to his prin- 
cipal of all that Covington had told him. There was little 
in this report to please the offender ; but there were other 
tidings which were more gratifying. The members of the 
club were busy to prevent the meeting. Mr. Barnabas had 
already sent a judicious and veteran politician to see Cov- 
ington ; and, having a great faith himself in the powers of 
the persons he had employed to bring the matter to a 


THE AVENGER. 


327 


peaceable adjustment, he had infused a certain portion of 
his own faith into the breast of his superior. 

And the bowl went round merrily ; and the hearts of the 
twain were lifted up, for, in their political transactions, 
there was much that had taken place of a character to give 
both of them positive gratification. And so the evening 
passed until about eight o’clock, when Mr. Barnabas sud 
deiily recollected that he had made an appointment with 
some gentleman which required his immediate departure. 
Sharpe was unwilling to lose him, and his spirits sunk with 
the departure of his friend ; nor were they much enlivened 
by the entrance of a lady, in whose meek, sad countenance 
might be read the history of an unloved, neglected, but un- 
complaining wife. He did not look up at her approach. 
She placed herself in the seat which Mr. Barnabas had left. 

“You look unwell, Warham. You seem to have been 
troubled, my husband,” she remarked with some hesitation, 
and in a faint voice. “ Is anything the matter ?” 

“ Nothing which you can help, Mrs. Sharpe,” he replied 
in cold and repelling accents, crossing his legs, and half 
wheeling his chair about so as to turn his back upon her. 
She was silenced, and looked at him with an eye full of a sad 
reproach and a lasting disappointment. No further words 
passed between them, and a few moments only elapsed 
when a rap was heard at the outer entrance. 

“ Leave the room,” he said ; “ I suppose it is Barnabas 
returned. I have private business with him. You had 
Vetter go to bed.” 

She rose meekly, and did as she was commanded. Ho 
also rose, and went to the door. 

“ Who’s that — Barnabas ?” he demanded, while opening 
the door. 

He wai answered indistinctly; but he fancied that the 
words were in Iho affirmative, and the visiter darted in the 
moment the door was opened. The passage-way • being 
dark, he could not distinguish the person of the stranger. 


328 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


except to discover that it was not the man whom ho ex 
pected. But this discovery was made almost in iho veiy 
instant when the intruder entered, and with it came certain 
apprehensions of danger, which, however vague, yet startled 
and distressed him. Under their influence he receded from 
the entrance, moving backward with his face to the stran- 
ger, till he re-entered the sitting-apartment. The momcitt 
that the light fell upon the face of the visiter, his knees 
knocked against one another. It was Beauchampe. 

“ Beauchampe !” he involuntarily exclaimed, with a hol- 
low voice, while his dilated eyes regarded the fierce, wild 
aspect of the visiter. 

“ Ay, Beauchampe !” were the echoed tones of the other 
— tones almost stifled in the deep intensity of mood with 
which they were spoken — tones low, but deep, like those 
of some dull convent-bell, echoing at midnight along the 
gray rocks and heights of some half-deserted land! As 
deep and soul-thrilling as would be such sounds upon the 
ear of some wanderer, unconscious of any neighborhood, 
did they fall upon the sudden sense of that criminal. His 
courage instantly failed him. His knees smote each other ; 
his tongue clove to his mouth ; he had strength enough only 
to recede as if with the instinct of flight. Beauchampe 
caught his arm. 

“ You can not fly — you must stay 1 My business will 
suffer no further postponement.” 

Beauchampe forced him into a chair. 

“ What is the matter, Beauchampe ? what do you nea.-. 
to do ?” gasped the trembling criminal. 

“ Does not your guilty soul tell you what I should do?” 
was the stern demand. 

“ I am guilty 1” was the half-choking answer. 

‘‘Ay 1 but the confession alone will avail nothiu^,. You 
must atone for your guilt 1” 

“ On my knees, Beauchampe ?” 

“ No ! — with your blood !” 


THE AVENGER. 


829 


“ Spare me, Beauchampe ! oh ! spare my life. Do not 
murder me — for I can not fight you on account of that in- 
jured woman !” 

“This whining will not answer, Colonel Sharpe. You 
must fight me. I have brought weapons for both. Choose!” 

The speaker threw two dirks upon the floor at the feet 
of the criminal, while he stood back proudly. 

“ Choose !” he repeated, pointing to the weapons. 

But the latter, though rising, so far from availing himself 
of the privilege, made an effort to pass his enemy and es- 
cape from the room. But the prompt arm of Beauchampe 
arrested him and threw him back with some force toward 
the corner of the apartment. 

“ Colonel Sharpe, you can not escape me. The falsehood 
of your friend, which sent me from the city, has resolved 
me to suffer no more delay of justice. Will you fight me ? 
Choose of the weapons at your feet.” 

“ I can not ! spare me, Beauchampe — my dear friend — 
for the past — in consideration of what we have been to 
each other — spare my life I” 

“ You thought not of this, villain, when, in the insolence 
of your heart, you dared to bring your lust into my dwel- 
ling.” 

“ Beauchampe, hear me for your own sake, hear me.” 

“ Speak 1 speak briefly. I am in no mood to trifle.” 

“ My crime was that of a young man — ” 

“ Stay ! your crime was the invasion of my family — of 
its peace.” 

“ Ah ! — that was a crime — if it were so.” 

“ What, do you mean to deny ? Dare you to impute false- 
hood to my w'ife ?” 

“ Beauchampe, she is your wife ; and for this reason, I 
will not say, what I might say, but — ” 

“ Ob ! speak all — speak all! I am curious to see by 
what new invention of villany you hope to deceive me.” 

“ 1^0 ^nllan^ — no invention, Beauchampe — 1 speak only 


330 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


the solemn truth. Before God, I assure you it is the truth 
only which I will deliver.” 

“ You swear ?” 

“ Solemnly.” 

Speak, then — but take up the dirk.” 

“ No ! If you will but hear me, I do not fear to con- 
vince you that there needs none either in your hands or 
mine.” 

“ You are a good lawyer, keen, quick-witted, and very 
logical ; but it will task better wits than yours to alter my 
faith that you are a villain, and that you shall perish by 
this hand of mine.” 

Beauchampe stooped and possessed himself of one of 
the weapons. 

“ Speak now ! what have you to say ? Remember Col- 
onel Sharpe, you have not only summoned God to witness 
your truth, but you may be summoned in a few moments to 
his presence to answer for your falsehood. I am sent here, 
solemnly sworn, to take your life !” 

“ But only because you believed me a criminal in respects 
in which I am innocent. If I show you that I never ap- 
proached Mrs. Beauchampe, while your wife, except with 
the respect due to herself and you — ” 

“ Liar ! but you can not show me that ! I tell you, I 
believe what she has told me. I know her truth and your 
falsehood.” 

“ She is prejudiced, my dear friend. She hates me — ” 

“ And with good reason : but hate you as she may, she 
speaks, and can speak, nothing in your disparagement bat 
the truth.” 

“ She has misunderstood — mistaken me, in what I said.” 

“ Stay !” approaching him. “ Stay ! do not deceive your- 
self, Colonel Sharpe : you can not deceive me. She has 
detailed the whole of your wild overtures — the very words 
of shame and guilt, and villanous baseness wnich you em- 
ployed.” 


THE ATENGEK. 


331 


“ Be^.ucbampe, my dear friend, arc you sure that she has 
told you all ?’* 

Here the criminal approached with extended hand, while 
he assumed a look of mysterious meaning, which left some- 
thing for the other to anticipate. 

“ Sure that she told me all ? Ay ! I am sure ! What 
remains ? Speak out, and leave nothing to these smooth, 
cunning faces. Speak out, while the time is left you.” 

“ Did she tell you of our first meeting in Charlemont ?” 

“ Ay, did she — that! everything !” 

“ I seek not to excuse my crime, there ^ Beauchamps — 
but that was not a crime against you ! I did not know yor 
then. I did not then fancy that you would ever be so 'h 
lied to—” 

“ Cease that, and say what you deem needful.” 

“ Did she tell you of the child ?” 

“ Child ! what child ?” demanded Beauchampe, with a 
start of surprise. 

The face of Sharpe put on a look of exultation. He felt 
that he had gained a point. 

“ Ah ! ha ! I could have sworn that she did not tell you 

aiir 

The eyes of Beauchampe glared more fiercely, and the 
convulsive twitching of the hand which held the dagger, 
and the quivering of his lip, might have warned his com- 
panion of the danger which he incurred of trifling with him 
longer. 

But Sharpe’s policy was to induce the suspicions of 
Beauchampe in relation to his wife. He fancied, from the 
unqualified astonishment which appeared in the latter’s 
face, as he spoke of the child, that he had secured a large 
foothold in this respect, for it was very clear that Mrs. 
Beauchampe, while relating everything of any substantial 
importance which concerned herself, had evidently omitted 
that portion of the narrative which concerned the unhappy 
and short-lived offspring of her guilty error. 


>E\UCHAMPE. 


-?a2 

It do&c '-o! need to inquire why she had forborne to in- 
clude trJs particular in her statement to her husband. 
There may have been some superior pang in the rccollcc- 
t'*.cr of that gloomy period which had followed her fall ; and 
It was not necessary to the frank coniession which she had 
freely offered of her guilt. 

But, though unimportant, Colonel Sharpe very well knew, 
that there ic a danger in the suppression of any fact, in a 
case like this, where the relations are so nice and sensitive, 
which 13 like to involve an appearance of guilt, and to lead 
ce 9 presumption. Like an experienced practitioner at 
th( /-ssions, he deemed it important to dwell upon this par- 
t' 

“ I could have sworn he repeated, ‘‘ that she had not 
told you of that child. “ Ah ! my dear friend, spare me 
the necessity of telling you what she has forborne. She is 
now your wife. Her reputation is yours — her sliame 
would be yours also. Believe me, I repent of all I have 
done — for your sake, for hers — believe me, moreover, 
when I assure you that she mistook my language, when she 
fancied that I meant indignity in what I said lately in your 
house.^^ 

“ But I could not mistake that. Colonel Sharpe.” 

“ No ! but did you hear it rightly reported ?” 

“ Ay ! she would not deceive me. You labor in vain. 
This dirty work is easy with you ; but it does not blind 
me ! Colonel Sharpe, what child is this that you speak 
of?” 

“ Her child, to be sure !” 

Her child ! Had she a child ?” 

To be sure she had. Ask her : she will not deny it, 
perhaps, and if she does, I can prove it.” 

“ Her child ! — and yours ?” 

No — no ! No child of mine !” 

Ha ! not your child ! Whose — whose then ?” 

Go to her, my dear friend ! Ask her of that child.” 


THE AVENGER. 


383 


“ Where is the child V” 

“ Dead !” 

“ Dead ! well ! what of it then 

“Go to her — ask her whose it was? Ah! my dear 
Beauchampe, let me say no more. Press me no further to 
speak. She h your wife !” 

The eye of Beauchampe settled upon him with a suddenly- 
composed but stony expression. 

“ Say all P’ he said deliberately. “ Disburthen yourself 
of all ! I request it particularly, Colonel Sharpe — nay, I 
command it.” 

“ My dear friend, Beauchampe, I really would prefer not 
— ah 1 it is an ugly business.” 

“Do not trifle. Colonel Sharpe — speak — you do not 
help your purpose by this prevarication. What do you 
know further of this child ? It was not yours, you say — 
whose was it then ?” 

“ It was not mine 1 and to say whose it was is scarce so 
easy a matter, but — ” and he drew nigh and whispered the 
rest of the sentence, some three syllables, into the ears of 
the husband. 

The latter recoiled. His face grew black, his hand 
grasped the dagger with nervous rigidity, and, while the 
look of cunning confidence mantled the face of the criminal, 
and before he could recede from the fatal proximity to 
whicli, in whispering, he had brought himself with the 
avenger, the latter had struck. The sharp edge of the 
dagger had answered the shocking secret — whatever might 
have been its character — and the terrible oath of the hus- 
band was redeemed! — redeemed in a single moment, and 
by a single blow. 

The wrongs of Margaret Cooper were at last avenged I 

But were her sorrows ended ? 

How should they be ? The hand that is stained with hu- 
man blood, in whatever cause — the soul that has prompte ’: 
the deed of blood — what waters shall make clean? 


334 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Yengeance is mine saith the Lord — meaning “ mine 
only !” Wo, then, for the guilty soul that usurps this sub- 
lime privilege of Deity! It must bide a dreary destiny 
before the waters of heavenly mercy shall flow to cleanse 
and sweeten it. We may plead the madness of the crimi- 
nals, and this alone may excuse what we are' not permitted 
to justify. Certainly, they had been stung to madness. 
The very genius of Margaret Cooper made the transition 
to madness easy ! 

But — Colonel Sharpe fell, prone on his face, at the feet 
of the avenger! 

A single blow had slain him ! 


HUE AND CRY. 


885 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HUE AND CRY. 

** Now that we have the food we so have longed for, 

Let us talk cheerily! We’ll think of pleasures 
That never shall grow surfeit — of joys of Death, 

Whose reign wraps earth in its eternal grasp, 

And feeds eternity ! Oh, we’ll be joyful now !” — Old Play. 

A MURDER in a novel, though of very common occurrence, 
is usually a matter of a thousand very thrilling minutise. li 
In the hands of a score of our modern romancers, it is sur- 
Drising what capital they make of it ! How it runs through 
a score of chapters! — admits of a variety of details, de- 
scriptions, commentaries, and conjectures I Take any of 
the great raconteurs of the European world — not forget- 
ting Dumas and Reynolds — and see what they will do with 
it ! How they turn it over, and twist it about, as a sweet 
morsel under the tongue ! In either of these hands, it be- 
comes one of the most prolific sources of interest ; which 
does not end with the knife or bludgeon stroke, or bullet- 
shot, but multiplies its relations the more it is conned, and 
will swallow up half* the pages of an ordinary duodecimo. 
As they unfold the long train of consequences, in intermi- 
nab\e recital, you are confounded at the dilating atmosphere 
of the deed ; at the long accumulation of dreary details ; 
fact upon fact — whether of moment or value to the 
*,r is net necessary tc be asked here — which 
grows out of c/'ne every hand. How it '.preads, as 
^ho radiating circles in the water, from a pebble plunged 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


y '»i* 

nto tr.c .aKS . There you see the good old butler or porter 
of the household, r it may be the cook or hostler — Saun 
iers May bin, or Richard Swopp, by name — going forth at 
aawn, having been troubled during the night with sundry 
•neasinesses. the consequence of a hearty supper of lobster 
or salt cod, and suddenly encountering a blood-spot upon 
the sward ! 

That mysterious blood-spot! — 

At the sight of it, the said Saunders or Richard recoils, 
puts his finger to his nose dubitatingly, shakes his noddle 
s gnificantly, and mutters — quoting Shakspere without a 
consciousness : “ This is miching malico ! It means mis- 
chief!” 

And, so saying, he goes on nosing — all nose from that 
moment — till he finds more sign/m the parlance of the 
Tj dian, and is at length conducted, step by step, till he 
stumbles over the lopped members of a human carcass jut- 
ting out from a dunghill ! 

Nay, it may not be so easily found — may require some 
circuitous turns of the nose before full discovery ; and then 
it may not be in a dunghill that it is hidden. It may be in 
the bushes or in the sands ; but no matter where : you shall 
be a whole summer day in making the discovery, for our 
authors will not suffer you to lose a single detail in the 
progress ; and, by the time the search is ended, it is to be 
hoped that you will believe that your author as well as 
conductor has a valuable nose ! 

But, whatever the particulars of search and discovery, 
you must have ’em all ; you will be bated not a hair, not 
an item, not an atom : how many are the drops of blood ; 
how large the puddle ; whether first seen on grass or sand ; 
how the body lies when found ; what the shape and size of 
the wound ; whether by a sharp or rusty blade, smooth shil- 
lelah or knotted hickory : there must be a regular inven- 
tory ! Such is equally crowner’s quest and novelist’s law ! 

And the “crowner’s quest” itself — that is always an 


HUE AND CRY. 


337 


inquisition of rare susceptibilities, and nice details and dis- 
criminations ; amplifications of the old case of Ophelia, as 
to whether the woman went to the water, or the water went 
to the woman ! The differences of vulgar opinion ; the 
array of vulgar prejudices ; the free use of legal technicali- 
ties ; and a thousand other abominable little niceties, that 
ought to be gathered up at a grasp, all spread out to the 
utmost stretch — like the shirt of Caesar — scored with 
bloody gashes, each having name and number ! To crown 
all, and to render the “ miching malico” more endurable 
and desirable, you are always sure to have some poor devil 
of an innocent in the way — just where he ought not to be 
— looking very much like the guilty one, and behaving with 
such pains-taking stupidity, that nobody doubts that he is ; 
and he is accordingly laid by the heels, and clapped up in 
prison, to answer to the crime. The genius of the novelist 
then goes to work, in right good earnest, to see how he can 
be got out of the darbies ! This is the notable way to re- 
late such a history usually ; and one might think it a toler- 
ably good way, indeed, were it not that most people find it 
abominably tedious. 

Having seen, for ourselves, how Sharpe was murdered, 
who was the murderer, and how the blow was struck, we 
shall not fatigue the reader in showing how many versions 
of the affair got abroad among those who were, of course, 
more and more positive in their conjectures in proportion 
to the small knowledge which they possessed. We make 
short a story which, long enough already, we apprehend, 
might, by an ingenious romancer, be made a great deal 
longer. 

Suspicion fell instantly on Beauchampe. On whom else 
should it fall ? He had announced his purpose to take the 
life of the criminal ; and, wherever Sharpe’s offence had got 
abroad, people expected that he would commit the deed. 

In our country, a great many crimes are committed to 
gratify ])ublic expectation. Most of our duels are fought 
15 


338 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to satisfy the demands of public opinion ; by which is un 
derstood the opinions of that little set, batch, or clique, of 
which some long-nosed Solomon — some addle-pated leader 
of a score whose brains are thrice addled — is the sapient 
lawgiver and head. Most of the riots and mobs are insti- 
gated by half-witted journalists, who first goad the offender 
to his crime, and, the next day, rate him soundly for its 
commission ! He who, in a fit of safe valor, the day before, 
taunted his neighbor with cowardice for submitting to an 
indignity, lifts up his holy hands with horror when he hears 
that the nose-pulling is avenged, and, as a conscientious 
juryman, hurries the wretch to the halter who has only fol- 
lowed his own suggestions in braining the assailant with his 
bludgeon ! All this is certainly very amusing, and, with 
proper details, makes a murder-paragraph in the newspaper 
which delights the old ladies to as great an extent as a 
marriage does the young ones. It produces that pleasura- 
ble excitement which is the mental brandy and tobacco to 
all persons of the Anglo-Saxon breed — for both of which 
the appetite is tolerably equal in both Great Britain and 
America. 

In the case of Beauchampe, the “ Hue and Cry” knew, 
by a sort of conventional instinct, exactly in what quarter 
to turn its sagacious nostrils. 

“ It is Beauchampe that has done this !” was the common 
voice, as soon as the deed was known. And, by-the-way, 
when public expectation so certainly points to the true 
offender, it is highly probable that it gave the clue to the 
offence in the first instance. It said; “Do it! — it ought 
:o be done 1” 

Beauchampe did not much concern himself about the 
“ Hue and Cry,” or even about that great authority “ Pub- 
lic Opinion.” He returned to his own dwelling ; but not 
with the feet of fear — not even with those of flight. His 
journey homeward was marked with the deliberation of one 
who feels r»atisficd that he has performed a duty, the neglect 


HUE AND CRY. 


339 


of which had long been burdensome and painful to his con- 
science. 

It is, of course, to be understood that he was laboring 
under a degree of excitement which makes it something 
like an absurdity to talk of conscience at all. The fanati- 
cism which now governed his feelings, and had sprung from 
them, possessed his mind also. With the air of one who 
has gone through a solemn and severe ordeal, with the feel- 
ing of a martyr, he presented himself before his wife. 

The deliberation of monomania is one of its most re- 
markable features. It is singularly exemplified by one 
portion of Beauchampe’s ptoceedings. On leaving her to 
seek the interview with Sharpe, he had informed her, not 
only on what day, but at what hour, to look for his return ; 
and he reached his dwelling within fifteen minutes of the 
appointed moment. 

Anxiously expecting his arrival, she had walked down 
the grove to meet him. On seeing her, lie raised his hand- 
kerchief, red with the bloody proofs of his crime, and waved 
it in the manner of a flag. She ran to meet him, and, as 
he leaped from his horse, she fell prostrate on her face 
before him. Her whole frame was convulsed, and she 
burst into a flood of tears. 

“ Why weep, why tremble ?” he exclaimed. “ Do you 
weep that the deed is done — the shame washed out in the 
blood of the criminal — that you are avenged at last?’^ 

His accents were stern and reproachful. She lifted hev 
hands and eyes to heaven as she replied 

“ No ! not for this I weep and tremble ; or, if for this, it 
is ill gratitude to Heaven that has smiled upon the deed.” 

But, though she spoke this fearful language, she spoke 
not the true feeling of her soul. We have already striven 
to show that she no longer possessed those feelings which 
would have desired the performance of the deed. She no 
longer implored revenge. She strove to reject the memory 
of the murdered man, as well as of the wanton crime by 


840 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


which he had provoked his fate ; and the emotion which 
she expressed, when she beheld the bloody signal waving 
from her husband’s hands, had its birth in the revolting of 
that feminine nature which, even in her, after the long con- 
templation which had made her imagination familiar with 
the crime, was still in the ascendant. But this she con- 
cealed. This she denied, as we have seen. Her motive 
was a noble one. It is soon expressed : — 

“ He has done the deed for me — in my behalf! Shall I 
now refuse approbation ? shall I withhold my sympathy ? 
No ! let his guilt be what it may, he is mine, and I am his, 
for ever !” 

And, with this resolve, she smiled upon the murderer, 
kissed his bloody hands, and lifted her own to Heaven in 
seeming gratitude for its sanction of the crime. 

But a new feeling was added to those which, however 
conflicting, her words and looks had just expressed. She 
rose from the ground in apprehension. 

“ But are you safe, my husband ?” she demanded. 

‘‘What matters it?” he replied. “Has he not fallen 
beneath my arm ?” 

“ Yes ; but if you are not safe ! — ” 

“I know not what degree of safety I need,” was his 
reply. “ I have thought but little of that. If you mean, 
however, to ask whether I am suspected or not, I tell you I 
believe I am. Nay, more — I think the pursuers are after 
me. They will probably be here this very night. But 
what of this, dear wife ? I have no fears. My heart is 
light. I am really happy — never more so — since the deed 
is done. I could laugh, dance, sing — practise any mirth 
or madness — just as one, who has been relieved of his pain, 
throws by his crutch, and feels his limbs and strength free 
at last, after a bondage to disease for years.” 

And he caught her in his arms as he spoke, and his eye 
danced with a strange fire, which made the woman shudder 
to behold it. A cold tremor passed through her veins. 


HUE AND CRY. 


841 


“Are you not happy too? — do you not share with me 
this joy ?” he demanded. 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure I do she replied, with a husky 
apprehension in her voice, which, however, he did not seem 
to observe. 

“ I knew it — I knew you would be ! Such a relief, end- 
ing in a triumph, should make us both so happy ! 1 never 

was more joyful, my dear wife. Never! never!” — and he 
laughed — laughed until the woods resounded — and did 
not heed the paleness of her cheek ; did not feel the falter- 
ing of her limbs as he clasped her to his breast ; did not 
note the wildness in her eye as she looked stealthily back- 
ward on the path over which he came. 

Slie, at least, was now fully in her senses, whatever she 
may have been before. She stopped him in his antics. She 
drew him suddenly aside, into the cover of the grove — for, 
by this time, they had come in sight of the dwelling — and, 
throwing herself on her knees, clasped his in her arms, 
while she implored his instant flight. 

But he flatly refused, and she strove in vain, however 
earnestly, to change his determination. All that she could 
obtain from him was, a promise to keep silent, and not, by 
any act of his own, to facilitate the progress of those who 
might seek to discover the proofs of his criminality. Crime, 
indeed, he had long ceased to consider his performance. 
The change, in this respect, which had taken place in her 
feelings and opinions, had produced none in his. His mind 
had been wrought up to something like a religious frenzy. 
He regarded the action, not only as something due to jus- 
tice — an action appointed for himself particularly — but as 
absolutely and intrinsically glorious. 

Perhaps, indeed, such an act as his should always be 
estimated with reference to the sort of world in which the 
performer lives. What were those brave deeds of the mid- 
dle ages — the avenging of the oppressed, the widow, and 
the orphan — by which stalwart chiefs made themselves 


342 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


famous ? Crimes, too, and sometimes of the blackest sort, 
but that they had their value as benefits at a period when 
society afforded no redress for injury, and consequently no 
protection for innocence. 

And what protection did society afford to Margaret 
Cooper, and what redress for injury ? Talk of your action 
for damages — your five thousand dollars — and of what 
avail to such a woman, robbed of innocence ; mocked, per- 
secuted ; followed to the last refuge of her life, the home 
of her mother and her husband : and, afterward, thrice- 
blackened in fame by the wanton criminal, by slanders of 
the most shocking invention ! 

Society never yet could succeed in protecting and redres- 
sing all its constituents, or any one of them, in all his or 
her relations. There are a thousand respects where the 
neighbors must step in ; where, to await for law, or to hope 
for law, is to leave the feeble and the innocent to perish. 
You hear the cry of “ Murder !” Do you stop, and resume 
your seat, with the comforting reflection that, if John mur- 
ders Peter, John, after certain processes of evidence, will 
be sent to the stateprison or the gallows, and make a goodly 
show, on some gloomy Friday, for the curious of both sexes ? 
Law is a very good thing in its way, but it is not every- 
thing ; and there are some honest impulses, in every manly 
bosom, which are the best of all moral laws, as they are 
the most certainly human of all laws. Give ue, say I, 
Kentucky practice, like that of Beauchampe, as a social 
law, rather than that which prevails in some of our pattern 
cities, where women are, in three fourths the number of in- 
stances, the victims — violated, mangled, murdered — where 
men are the criminals — and where (Heaven kindly having 
withdrawn the sense of shame) there is no one guilty — at 
least none brave enough or manly enough to bring the guilty 
to punishment ! What is said is not meant to defend or 
encourage the shedding of blood. We may not defend the 
taking of life, even by the laws. We regard life as an 


HUE AND CRY. 


34B 


express trust from Heaven, of which, as we should not 
divest ourselves, no act but that of Heaven should divest 
us : but there is a crime beyond it, in the shedding of that 
vital soul-blood, its heart of hearts, life of all life, the fair 
fame, the untainted reputation ; and the one offence which 
provokes the other should be placed in the opposing bal- 
ance, as an offset, in some degree, to the crime by which it 
is avenged. 


344 


BEAUCHAMPW- 


CHAPTEK XXXV. 

THE DUNGEON. 

We could tell a long story about the manner in which 
Beauchampe was captured ; but it will suffice to say that 
when the pursuers presented themselves at his threshold, 
he was ready, and with the high, confident spirit of one as- 
sured that all was right in his own own bosom, he yielded 
himself up at their summons, and attended them to Frank- 
fort. 

Behold him, then, in prison. The cold, gloomy walls are 
around him, and all is changed, of the sweet, social outer 
world, in the aspects which meet his eye. 

But the woman of his heart is there with him ; and if the 
thing that we love is left us, the dungeon has its sunshine, 
and the prison is still a home. The presence of the loved 
one hallows it into home. Amidst doubt, and privation — 
the restraint he endures, and the penal doom which he may 
yet have to su^er — her afiection rises always above his 
affliction, and baffles the ills that would annoy, and soothes 
the restraint which is unavoidable. She has a consolation 
such as woman alone knows to administer, for the despond- 
ency that weighs upon him. She can soothe the dark 
hours with her song, and the weary ones with her caress 
and smile. 

But not to ordinary appeals like these does the wife of 
his bv,som confine her ministry. Her soul rises in strength 
corre:?ponding tc the demands of his. Ardent in Ids nature, 


THE DUNGEON. 


345 


little used to restraint, the circumscribed boundary of liis 
prison grows irksome, at moments, beyond his temper to 
endure. At such moments his heart fails him, and doubts 
arise — shadows of the solemn truth which always haunt the 
soul of the wrong-doer, however righteous to his diseased 
mind may seem his deeds at the moment of their perform- 
ance — doubts that distress him with the fear that he may 
still have erred. 

To the pure heart — to the conscientious spirit — there is 
nothing more distressing than such a doubt ; and this very 
distress is the remorse which religion loves to inspire, when 
it would promote the workings of repentance. It is a mis- 
placed and mistaken kindness that the wife of Beauchampe 
undertakes to fortify his faith, and strengthen him in the 
conviction that all is right. We can not blame her, though 
pity ’tis ’twas so. She no longer speaks — perhaps she no 
longer thinks — of the deed which he has done, as an event 
either to be deplored, or to have been avoided. She speaks 
of it as a necessary misfortune. As she found that he de- 
rived his chief consolation from the conviction that the deed 
was laudable, she toils, with deliberate ingenuity and in- 
dustry, to confirm his impressions. Through the sad, slow- 
pacing moments of the midnight, she sits beside him and 
renews the long and cruel story of her wrong. She sup- 
presses nothing now. That portion of the narrative relating 
to the child, from her previous suppression of which, the 
unhappy man whom he had slain, had striven to originate 
certain doubts of her conduct, and to infuse them into the 
mind of Beauchampe — was all freely told, and its previous 
suppression explained and accounted for. The wife seemed 
tc take a singular and sad pleasure in reiterating this pain- 
ful narrative ; and yet, every repetition of the tale brought 
to her spirit the pang, as keenly felt as ever, of her early 
humiliation. But she saw that the renewal of the story 
strengthened the feeling of self-justification in the mind of 
her husband ! That was the rock upon which he stood, and 

15 * 


S4G 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to confirm the solidity of that support, was to lighten the 
restraints of his prison, and all the terrors which might be 
inspired by the apprehension of his doom. Of the mere 
stroke of death, he had no fears ; but there is something in 
the idea of a felon death by the halter, which distresses 
and subjugates the strongest nerves. This idea sometimes 
came to afflict the prisoner, but the keen instincts of his 
wife enabled her very soon to discover the causes of his 
depression, and her quick, commanding intellect provided 
her with the arguments which were to combat them. 

“ Do not fear, my husband,” she would say. “ I know 
that they must acquit you. No jury of men — men who 
have wives, and daughters, and sisters, but must not only 
acquit you of crime, but must justify and applaud you for 
the performance of a deed which protects their innocence, 
and strikes terror into the heart of the seducer. You have 
not been my champion merely, you are the champion of my 
sex. The blow which your arm has struck, was a blow in 
behalf of every unprotected female, of every poor orphan — 
fatherless, brothorless, and undefended — who otherwise 
would be the prey of the ruffian and the betrayer. No, 
no ! There can be no cause of fear. I do not fear for you. 
I will myself go into the court, and, if need be, plead your 
cause by telling the whole story of my wrong. They shall 
hear me. I will neither fear nor blush — and they shall 
believe me when they hear.” 

But to this course the husband objected. The heart of a 
man is more keenly alive to the declared shame of one he 
truly loves, than to the loss of life or of any other great 
sacrifice which the social man can make. Besides, BeaU' 
champe knew better than his wife what would be permitted, 
and what denied, in the business of a court of justice. Still, 
it was necessary that steps should be taken for his defence. 
At first, he proposed to argue his own case ; but he was 
very soon conscious, after a few moments given to reflec- 
tion on this subject, that his feelings would enter too largely 


THE DUNGEON. 


317 


into his mind to suffer it to do him or itself justice. While 
undetermined what course to pursue, or who to employ, his 
friend Covington suggested the name of Calvert, as that of 
a lawyer likely to do him more justice by far than any other 
that he could name. 

“ I know Colonel Calvert,” said the young man, ‘‘ and I 
can assure you he has no superior as a jury pleader in the 
country. He is very popular — makes friends wherever he 
goes, and is beginning to be accounted, everywhere, the 
only man who could have taken the field against Sharpe.” 

“ But what was it that you told me of his fighting with 
Sharpe on my account !” was the inquiry of Beauchampe, 
now urged with a degree of curiosity which ho had neither 
shown nor felt, when the fact was first mentioned to him. 

“ Of that I can tell you little. It is very well known 
that Sharpe and Calvert quarrelled and fought, almost at 
their first meeting. The friends of Sharpe asserted that 
tlie quarrel arose on account of offensive words which Cal- 
vert made use of in disparagement of Desha.” 

“ Yes, I heard that — now I remember — from Barnabas 
himself.” 

“ Such was the story ; but Sharpe assured me that the 
affair really took place on account of Mrs. Beauchampe.” 

“ Mrs. Beauchampe !” exclaimed the husband. 

The wife, who was present, looked up inquiringly, but 
said nothing. Mr. Covington looked to the lady and re- 
mained silent, while, with a face suddenly flushed, Beau- 
champe motioned to his wife to leave them. When she had 
done so, Covington repeated what had been said by Sharpe 
concerning his duel with Calvert. 

It was only some lie of his, intended to help his eva- 
sion. It was to secure the temporary object. I never heard 
of Calvert from my wife.” 

Such was Beauchampe’s opinion. But Covington thought 
otherwise. 

“ A rumor has reached me since,’’ he added, “ which 


o48 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


leads me to think that the story is not altogether withoiu 
foundation. At all events, whether there be anything in it 
or not, Calvert will be your man for the defence. If any- 
thing is to be done, he will do it. But really, Beauchampe, 
if you have stated all the particulars, they can establish 
nothing against you.” 

“ Ah ! the general persuasion that I ought to kill Sharpe, 
will produce testimony enough. I think I shall escape, 
Covington, but it will be in spite of the testimony. I will 
escape, because of the sentiment of justice, which, in the 
breast of every honest man, will say, that Sharpe ought to 
die, and that no hand had a belter right to take his life than 
mine. But you know the faction. They are strong — his 
friends and relatives are numerous. They will strain every 
nerve — spare no money, and suborn testimony enough to 
effect their object. They will fail, I think : I can scarcely 
say I hope, for, of a truth, my dear fellow, it seems to me 
that I have done the great act of my life. I feel as if I had 
performed the crowning achievement. I could do nothing 
more meritorious if I lived a thousand years ; and death, 
therefore, would not be to me noiv such a misfortune as I 
should have regarded it a month ago. Still, life has some- 
thing for me. 1 should like to live. The thought of losing 
her^ is a worse pang than any that the mere loss of life could 
inflict.” 

The prisoner was touched as he said these words. A big 
tear gathered in his eye, and he averted his face from his 
companion. Covington rose to depart. As he did so he 
asked : — 

“ Shall I see Calvert for you, Beauchampe ?” 

“ I will think of it, and let you know to-morrow,” was 
the reply. 

“ The sooner the better. Your enemies are busy, and 
Calvert lives at some distance. He must be written to, and 
time may be lost, as he may be on the road row somewhere. 
I will look in upon you in the morning.” 


THE DUNGEON. 


349 


“Do So. I shall then be better able to say what should 
be done 1 wni think of it to-night : but, of a truth, Cov- 
ington, I do not feel disposed to do anything. I prefer to 
'cmain inactive. For what should I say? Speak out? 
That would be against all legal notions of making a de- 
fence. And yet, I know no mode properly of defending 
myself, than by declaring the act my own, and justifying 
it as such. To myself — to my own soul — it is thus justi- 
fied. God! — if it were not! But, in order to make tnis 
justification felt by the jury, they must know my secret. 
They must hear all that damning tale of her trial and over 
throw, and the serpent-like progress of aim wnose nead I 
have bruised for ever ! How can -T lell tkaf, '> That is 
impossible !’’ 

Covington agreed with the speaker, who proceeded thus : 

“ Well, then, I am silent. The general issue is one of 
form, pleading which Z am not supposed to be guilty of any 
violation of the law* '/ morals — though wdiat an absurdity 
is that ! — I plead it, and Kce^ silent. The onus probandi 
lies with the state — ” 

“ And it can prove nothing, if your statement be correct.” 

“ Non sequitur^ my good fellow. My statement is cor- 
rect. Nobody saw me commit the deed. The clothes 
which I wore are sunk to the bottom of the Kentucky river ; 
the dirk is buried ; and I know that, with the exception of 
the great Omniscient, my proceedings were hidden from the 
eyes of all. But it does not follow from this that there 
will be no evidence against me. I suspect there will be 
witnesses enough. The friends and family of Sharpe will 
suborn witnesses. There are hundreds of people, too, who 
readily believe what they fancy ; and conjecture will make 
details fast enough, which the vanity of seeming to know 
will prompt the garrulous to deliver. I am convinced that 
vanity makes a great many witnesses, who will lie for tlie 
sake of having something to say, and will swear to the lie 
for the sake of having an audience who are compelled to 


350 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


listen to tlieui. With a little management, ycu can get 
anything sworn to. You have heard of the philosopher 
who, under a bet, with some previous arrangement, collect- 
ed a crowd in the street to see certain stars at noonday, 
which soon became visible to as many as looked. Some 
few did not see so many stars as others, nor did they seen, 
to tliese so bright as to the rest ; but all of them saw the 
stars — they were there — that was enough; and some of 
your big-mouthed observers booked a few incipient moons 
or comets, and, of course, were more conspicuous themselves 
in consequence of their conspicuous sight-seeing. If I have 
any fear at all, it will be from some such quarter. The 
friends of Sharpe have already turned upon me as the 
criminal, and other eyes will follow theirs. Those who 
know the crime of Sharpe, will conclude that the deed is 
mine, from a conviction which all have felt that it should 
be mine ; and, not to look to the political manoeuvrers for 
interference, I make no question but they will find the very 
dagger with which the deed was done — perhaps half-a-dozen 
daggers — each of which will have its believer, and each 
believer will be possessed of as many leading circumstances 
t ) identify the murderer.” 

“ I believe that they will try to convict you, Beauchampe, 
but I can not think, with you, that witnesses are so easy to 
be found.” 

We shall see — we shall see.” 

“ At all events, a good lawyer, who will probe such wit- 
nesses to the quick, will be the best security against their 
frauds, whether these arise from vanity or malevolence ; 
and I can not too earnestly recommend you to let me see 
or write to Calvert.” 

“ On that point I will give you my answer hereafter,” 
said Beauchampe evasively. 

“ In the morning,” suggested the other. 

“ Ay, perhaps so : at least, Covington, let me see you then.” 

The other promised, and, taking a kind farewell, depart- 


THE DUNGEON. 


361 


ed. iVlien he had gone, the wife of Beauchampe reappeared, 
and, with some earnestness of manner, he directed her to 
sit beside him upon his pallet. 

Anna,’’ said he, “ you never told me anything of a Mr. 
Calvert. Do you know any such person, and how are you 
interested in him ?” 

‘ I know but one person of the name — an old gentleman 
who taught sehool at Charlemont. But I have neither seen 
nor heard of him for years.” 

“ An old gentleman ! How old ?” 

“ Perhaps sixty or sixty-five.” 

“ Not the same ! But, perhaps, he had a son ? Now, I 
remember, that, when I went to Bowling-Green, there was 
an old gentleman, with a very white head, who seemed inti- 
mate with Colonel Calvert.” 

“ He had no son — none, at least, that I ever saw.” 

“ It is strange !” 

“ What is strange, Beauchampe ?” she asked. 

He then told her all that he had learned from Covington. 
She concurred with him that it was strange, if true ; but de- 
clared her belief that the story was an invention of Sharpe, 
by which he hoped to effect some object which he might 
fancy favorable to his safety. 

“But, at all events, husband, employ this Colonel Cal- 
vert, of whom Mr. Covington and the public seem to think 
so highly. You have spoken very highly of him yourself” 

“ Yes,” was the reply ; “ but somehow, Anna, I am loath 
to do anything in my defence. I hate to seek evasion from 
the dangers of an act which I performed deliberately, and 
would again perform, were it again necessary.” 

“ But this is a strange prejudice, surely, Beauchampe. 
Why should you not defend yourself?” 

“ I would, my wife, if defence, in this case, implied justi- 
fiQation.” 

“ And does it not ?” demanded the wife anxiously. 

“ No, nothing like it. It implies evasion — the suppres- 


362 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


sion of the truth, if not the suggestion of the falsehood. 
You are no lawyer, Anna. The truth would condemn me.” 

“ What ! the whole truth !” 

“No — perhaps not; but it would be difficult to got the 
whole truth before a jury : and, even if this could be done, 
could I do it ?” 

“ And why not, my husband ?” she demanded earnestiy, 
approaching him at the same moment, and laying her hand 
impressively upon his shoulder, while her eyes were fixed 
upon his own — 

“And why not? The day of shame — shame from this 
cause — has gone by from us. We are either above or be- 
low the world. At least, we depend not for the heart’s 
sustenance upon it. Suppose it scorns and reviles us — 
suppose it points to me as the miserable victim of that 
viperous lust which crawled into our valleys with a glozing 
tongue — I, that know how little I was the slave of that foul 
passion, in my own breast, will not madden, more than I 
have done, at its contumelious judgment. They can not 
call me harlot. No, Beauchampe ! I fell ; T was trampled 
in the dust of shame ; I was guilty of weakness, and vanity, 
and wilfulness ; but, believe me, if ever spirit felt the re- 
morse and the ignominy which belong to virtuous repent- 
ance of error, that spirit was mine !” 

“I know it — do I not know it, dearest?” he said, ten- 
derly taking her in his arms. 

“ I believe you know and feel it ; and this conviction, 
Beauchampe, strengthens me against the world. In your 
judgment I fixed my proper safety for the future. Let the 
world know all — the whole truth — if that will anything 
avail for your justification. Let them speak of me here- 
after as they please. Secure in myself — secure from the 
self-reproach of having fallen a victim to the harlot-appe- 
tite (though the victim to my own miserable vanity and 
folly) — doubly secure in your conviction of the truth of 
what I say, and am — I can smile at all that follows : I can 


Ihfj i^UNGEON. 


353 


do more, Beauchampe — endure it with patience and forti- 
tude, and without distressing you or myself with the lan- 
g age of complaint. Do not, therefore, dear Beauchampe, 
ref^ise the justification which the truth may bring, through 
iny wish to save me from the further exposure. Hear me, 
wher I assure you, solemnly, in this solemn midnight — 
with no eye upon us in this cold, gloomy dungeon, but 
uhat of Heaven — hear me solemnly affirm that though you 
should resolve to spare me, I will not spare myself. If need 
be, I wall go into the courthouse — before the assembled 
judges, before the people — and with my own tongue declare 
the story of my shame. Base should I be, indeed, if, to save 
these cheeks from the scarlet which would follow such a 
recital, I could see them hale you to the ignominious gal- 
lows !” 

“ And sooner would I die a thousand deaths on that gal- 
lows, than suft’er you to do yourself such cruel wrong !” 

Such w'as the answer spoken with effort, with husky ac- 
cents, wdiich the criminal made to the strong-minded woman, 
whose high-souled, and seemingly unnatural resolution — 
however opposed to his — yet touched him really as a proof 
of the most genuine devotion. He did not say more ; he 
did not offer to dispute a resolution which he well knew 
he could not overthrow ; but he determined, inly, to prac- 
tise some becoming artifice, to deprive her, when the crisis 
of his fate was at hand, of any opportunity of meddling in 
its progress. 

Thus the night waned — the long, dark night, in that 
gloomy dungeon. Not altogether gloomy ! Devotion makes 
light in the dark places. Love cheers the solitude with its 
own pure star-lighted countenance. Sincerity wins us from 
the contemplation of the darkness ; and with the sweet 
w^ord of tlie truthful comforter in our ear, the fever subsides 
from the throbbing temples, and the downcast heart is lifted 
into hope. That night, and every night, she shared with 
him his dungeon ! 


^54 


BEAJJHd.l'T?'. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OP LOVE. 

The arguments of Covington, to persuade Beauchampe 
to employ the services of Calvert, were unavailing. He, at 
length, gave it up in despair. The very suggestion which 
Sharpe had made, that Calvert had some knowledge already 
of the wife’s character, and that the duel between himself 
and Calvert had originated in the knowledge of his wrong 
to her — however curious it made Beauchampe to learn what 
relation the latter could have had to his wife — was also a 
cause, why, in the general soreness of his feelings on tliis 
subject, he should studiously avoid the professional assist- 
ance of the other. The wife, when Covington took his de- 
parture, renewed the attempt. The arguments of the latter 
had been more imposing to her mind than they were to that 
of the husband ; but, repeated by her, they did not prove a 
jot more successful that when urged by Covington. To 
these she added suggestions of her own, a sample of which 
we have seen in a previous chapter ; but the prisoner re- 
mained stubborn. The wife at length ceased to persuade, 
having, with the quick perception and nice judgment which 
distinguished her character, observed the true point of dif- 
ficulty — one not to be easily overcome — and which was to 
be assailed in a manner much more indirect. She resolved 
to engage the services of Calvert herself. 

Her own curiosity had been raised in some degree by 
what she had heard in respect to this person ; and though 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 356 

she did not believe the story which Covington got from 
Sharpe, touching the causes of the duel between himself and 
rival, yet the fact that they had fought, and that Calvert 
had been wounded in the conflict with her enemy, of itself 
commended the former to her regard. As the period for 
her husband’s trial drew nigh, her anxieties naturally in- 
creased, so as to strengthen her in the resolution which she 
had already formed to secure those legal services which 
Beauchampe had rejected. Accordingly, concealing her 
purpose she absented herself from the prison, and, having 
secured the necessary information, set forth on her mission. 

Of the prosperous fortunes of William Calvert, some 
glimpses have already been given to the reader in the course 
of this narrative. These glimpses, we trust, have sufficed 
to satisfy any curiosity, which the story of his youth and 
youthful disappointments might have occasioned in any 
mind. We understand, of course, that thrown upon his own 
resources, driven from the maternal petticoats, which en- 
feeble and destroy so many thousand sons, the necessities 
to which he w^as subjected, in the rough attrition of the 
world, had brought into active exercise all the materials of 
his physical and intellectual manhood. He had plodded 
over the dusky volumes of the law with un relaxing dili- 
gence. He had gone through his probationary period with- 
out falling into any of those emasculating practices which 
too often enslave the moral sense and dissipate the intellec- 
tual courage of young men. He had graduated with credit ; 
had begun practice with an unusual quantity of business 
patronage, and had made his debut with a degree of eclat, 
which, while it put to rest all the apprehensions of tho 
good old man who had adopted him, had effectually recom- 
mended him to the public, as one of the strong men to whom 
they could turn with confidence, to represent the character- 
istics and maintain the rights of the people. 

Of his success, some idea may be formed, if we remember 
the position in which he stood in the conflict with Colonel 


356 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Sharpe. If the latter was the Coiyphasus of one party, 
William Calvert was regarded by all eyes as the most 
prominent champion of the other; and though the other 
party might be in the minority, it was not the less obvious 
to most, that, if the success of the party could be made en- 
tirely to depend upon the relative strength of the represen- 
tative combatants, the result would have been very far 
otherwise. The best friends of Sharpe, as we have already 
seen, endeavored to press upon him the belief, which they 
really felt, that, with such an opponent as William Calvert 
in the field against him, it would require the exercise of 
his very best talents in order to maintain his ground. We 
need not dwell longer on this part of our subject. 

But, with the prominence of position, taken of necessity 
by William Calvert, in the political world, was an accumu- 
lation of legal business which necessarily promised fortune. 
In the brief space of three years which followed his admis- 
sion to the bar, his clients became so numerous as to ren- 
der it necessary that he should concentrate his attentions 
upon a more limited circuit of practice. Other effects fol- 
lowed, and the good old man whose name he had taken, 
leaving Charlemont, like his protege, for ever, had come to 
live with him in the flourishing town where he had taken 
up his abode. Here their united funds enabled them to buy 
a fine house and furnish it with a taste which, day by day, 
added some object of ornament or use. 

The comforts being duly considered, the graces were ne- 
cessarily secured, as the accumulation of means furnished 
the necessary resources. Books grew upon tlie already- 
groaning shelves ; sweet landscapes and noble portraits 
glowed from the walls. With no wife to provide, in those 
tnousand trifles for which no funds would be altogether 
adequate, in the shocking and offensive style of expendi- 
ture which has recently covered our land with sores and 
spangles, shame and frippery — the income of William Cal 
7ert wis devoted to the cultivation of such tastes as are 


DIFFERENT PTITLOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 


857 


legitimate in tlie eyes of a truly philosophical judgment, 
lie sought for no attractions but such as gave employment 
cither to the sense of beauty or the growth of the under 
standing. 

The contemplation of the forms of beauty produces in the 
mind a love of liarmony and proportion, which, in turn, es- 
tablish a nice moral sense, that revolts with loathing at 
what is mean, coarse, or brutal ; and, with this impression, 
our young lawyer, whenever his purse permitted such out- 
lay, despatched his commission to tlie Atlantic city for the 
speaking canvass or the eloquent and breathing bust. In 
tastes like these his paternal friend fully sympathized with 
him. In fact they had been first awakened in him by his 
venerable tutor, during the course of his boyish education. 
Thus co-operating, and with habits, which, in other re- 
spects, were singularly inexpensive, it is not surprising that 
the dw'elling of William Calvert should already be known, 

among the people of , as the very seat of elegance and 

art. Ilis pictures formed a theme among his acquaintance 
— and even those who were not — which every new addi- 
tion contributed to revive and enlarge ; and, in the inno- 
cent pursuit of such objects of grace and beauty — with 
j)Ooks, the philosophies and songs, of the old divines of Na- 
!ure — her proper priesthood — the days of the youth began 
10 go by sweetly and with such soothing, that the memory 
of Margaret Cooper, though it never ceased to sadden, yet 
now failed entirely to sting. He had neither ceased to 
love nor ir regret ; but his disappointment did not now oc- 
casion a pang, nor was his regret such as to leave him in- 
sensible to the genial influences which life everywhere 
spreads generously around for the working* spirit, and the 
just and gentle heart. 

But, as we have seen, William Calvert was not permit- 
ted, either by his own nature and pursuits, or by the exac- 
tions of society, to indulge simply in the elegancies of life. 
The possession of active talents of any kind, and in all 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


regions, implies a proper impulse to use. This is 

more particularly the case in our countr}', where tlic field is 
more free than in all others, more open to all coiners, and 
where the absence of hereditary distinctions and a prescrip- 
tive social prestige compels ambition to strain e'\ery nerve 
in the attainment of position. 

The profession of the law itself implies government among 
us, and politics are apt to lay their talons upon all who ex- 
hibit the possession of oratorical powers in connection with 
the pursuit of law. William Calvert, somewiiat in spite of 
his own tastes and wishes — for he well knew how slavisli 
and degrading were the conditions of public favor in a de- 
mocracy like ours — was forced to buckle on the armor of 
party, and take the field in a great local contest, which 
contemplated federal as well as state politics. 

We have seen how suddenly his career was arrested and 
suspended for a season, by the bullet, at five paces, of his 
political rival. 

His wound — probable owing to the'bold course adopted 
by his venerable counsellor — was not a serious one, though 
it laid him up for a space, during which his party was de- 
feated ; a result which many of its able men were pleased 
to ascribe mostly to the fact that their chief speaker was 
thus hors de combat. This conviction strengthened his 
claims in the future, though the immediate battle was lost 
in which he had been engaged at the time. The defeat 
was temporary only — that they all felt; and all parties 
were equally persuaded that the next struggle must eventu- 
ate in the elevation of William Calvert to the full supremacy 
over his own. 

The brief period during w'hich he was confined to his 
chamber by his hurt was one which was crowded with am- 
ple testimonies of his popularity with the many, and the 
grateful esteem with which he was regarded by the select 
and sacred few. The sturdy yeomen thronged to inquire 
about his progress with an interest which showed how 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 859 

deeply lie had made his way into the common heart. Nor 
were the men of mark less earnest and considerate — less 
solicitous of the fate of one who, as a dangerous rival, must 
either be denounced or conciliated. Higher and more hon- 
orable motives were at work, however, in the breasts of 
ethers — too far above the crowd to suffer such as these to 
abridge their sympathies ; and the bedside of our young 
lawyer was honored by the visits of such great men as Clay 
and Crittenden. His wound, though rendering his thigh a 
somewhat sore precinct for a while, was yet productive of 
much balm and sootliing for his mind and heart. 

Hut there was one visiter, over all, whose unexpected 
presence was eminently grateful, bringing with it not only 
a true devotion and a genuine sympathy, but recalling so 
many dear and pleasant passages in a past of various sad 
and sweet experiences. As soon as his cousin Ned Hink- 
ley heard of his disaster, he hastened off to see and tend 
upon him, bringing with him nothing but a carpet-bag, with 
a few changes of linen, his violin, and a pair of pistols, con- 
secrated in the family affections by a grandsire’s use of 
them in Revolutionary periods. 

Ned Hinkley, though a good fellow, was inveterate as a 
violinist. Ned relieved the violin by occasional practice 
with the pistols. Ned’s boast was that he could draw an 
equally good sight and bow ; and Ned was especially anx- 
ious to take up the game with Colonel Sharpe — to whom 
he owed an old gnidge as Alfred Stevens — just where his 
cousin had ended it. Ned’s conscience troubled him, too, 
as being somewhat the occasion of William’s present suffer- 
ings, as he felt and said, very logically : — 

For you seo, Willie, if I had shot that fellow Stevens, 
five years ago, as I ought to have done, he wouldn’t have 
been able to put an ounce bullet into your bacon !” 

It was no fault of Ned, we assure you, that he did not 
shoot Stevens. He had every disposition to do that oily 
jolitician some such touching service. 


mo 


BEAUCIIAMPE. 


Ned Hinkley was a good companion. He was lively 
garrulous, full of quip and crank ; could make bis fiddle 
speak wlien his own tongue was tired ; was a very loving 
kinsman, and no humbug. He was as sincere as sunshine. 

He was soon installed beside the couch of the wounded 
man, relieving old Mr. Calvert of his watch, and sharing 
with him the grateful employment of amusing the invalid, 
wliich he did after a fashion of his own. We give a sample 
of his quality in this sort of performance : — 

“ A.nd how does it feel, Willie ?” 

“ How does what feel ?’’ 

“ Why, tlie bullet in your hip.” 

“ There is no bullet there now, Ned. It is extracted. 

‘‘Well, I know that! What I mean to ask is, what is 
the sort of sensation which it leaves behind it ? Rather a 
pleasant one, I suppose !” 

“ Indeed ! a curious supposition, Ned.” 

“ Not so ! In small wounds, such is the case usually 
when they are in a way to heal. I have so found it in my 
own case. When I was getting better of that ugly gash I 
got at muster six years ago — you remember — from Ralph 
Byers, I was really delighted by the sensation. There was 
a sort of pleasant tickling going on all the time, as Nature 
was taking up the old threads and reuniting them. So, 
when I shot off that finger, trying Tom Curtis's little double 
barrel — after the first pain of the thing was over, I began 
to feel a sort of pleasure in the sensation ; and I suppose 
there’s good reason for it. Nature, as a matter of course, 
like a good surgeon, will do her best to soothe one’s hurts 
on such an occasion, by some secret remedial processes of 
her own. The fact is, I always found so much pleasure in 
getting well on such occasions, that I found myself always 
pulling and picking at the wound, just to keep up a sort 
of irritation, so as to prolong the duration of the cure.” 

“ Comical ! On the same plan, if you found a medicine, 
however nauseous, doing its work effectually, you will re- 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OP LOVE. 361 

quire that the dose should be doubled, and take some of 
the physic daily, with the same object — the prolongation 
of the benefit.” 

“Not so — no! The analogy fails, Willie. The skin, 
or flesh, is one thing; but the stomach is another — quite. 
No tampering with that 1 It is sacred to fish, flesh, fowl, 
and physic is its abomination. I don’t believe in physic, 
though I do in the pleasure of flesh-wounds.” 

The tuning of the fiddle followed this philosophy ; and, 
under the sedative influences of an original fantasia which 
might have afforded some new ideas to Ole Bull, William 
Calvert sank off into a pleasant slumber, leaving Ned in 
the midst of a backwoods commentary on the nature, the 
sources, and the methods of music, particularly of violin- 
music, which he held to be the proper foundation of every 
other sort. 

Ned Hinkley thus, alternating between his sister’s farm- 
stead and the house of his cousin — the two places being 
some twelve miles apart — continued to visit and console 
William Calvert through the month of his confinement. 

And this was no small sacrifice on the part of Ned, when 
we are told that, in addition to the fatigue of such a ride 
some three or four times a week, he was busily engaged in 
all the rigors of a warm courtship. Of course, he told his 
cousin the whole history of his wooing. 

“ Well — but, Ned, how is it that you have forborne all 
description of Miss Bernard ?” 

“ Sallie Bernard is indescribable, Willie.” 

“ What ! so very beautiful ?” 

“No 1 I don’t think that even a lover would call her 
beautiful.” 

“ Is she so wise, then — so highly endowed with intellect, 
and the graces and accomplishments ?” 

“ No, 1 can't say that either ! The fact is, Willie, that 
Sallie is nothing more than a clever country-girl — a good 
girl, a loving girl, a gentle girl, and a willing girl — and 
16 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


that word willing goes a great ways with me in a woman. 
1 don’t go for wisdom, and learning, and great talents, and 
great beauties, and charms, and graces, in a wife, Willie ; 
I go for a woman — a true woman — that knows she’s the 
weaker vessel, and knows what’s due to her lord and mas- 
ter. I am after a wife, not a philosopher in petticoats. I 
want a wife who will be the mother of my children ; not a 
conceited fool, who is perpetually trying to show the world 
that she is more of a man than her husband, as is the case 
generally with all that sort of people, of whom your famous 
Margaret Cooper was a particularly superb brimstone ex- 
ample.” 

“ Nothing of her, Ned,” said the other sadly. “ Tell me 
of your Sallie Bernard.” 

“ Well, perhaps I’d better tell you in poetry. You know 
that I too have written verses, and was no small fish at it, 
as you remember. 1 am half disposed to think that my 
verses were sometimes quite as good as yours. You re- 
member the lines I wrote upon the old mill at Chaiie- 
mont ?” 

“ Yes : they were really very good, Ned.” 

“ To be sure they were ! 1 doubt if you could do better, 

try your best. Then there was the epitaph I made on poor 
old Wolf, my bull-terrier. ’Gad! I liked it better than 
Lord Byron’s on his Newfoundland pup. But I’ve done 
better things since, that I never showed you ; and some of 
my lines about Sallie are, to my thinking, quite good enough 
to be put into a magazine.” 

“ Very likely, Ned — and yet not make you sure of cedar- 
oil immortality. But let’s have your metrical portrait of 
Miss Sallie.” 

“ You shall ! I’m not squeamish about it ; and these 
verses are just about the proper answer to your question. 
They tell you just why I love Sallie, and for what a man 
ought to seek a wife. They’re rough yet, for I haven’t had 
time to pass the smoothing-iron over them. But I’ll work 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OP LOVE. 


8i33 


’em out in ship-shape yet, and make a spiggot or spoil a 
horn. Now, don’t you begin to find fault, and stop me, 
whenever you fancy there’s a hitch in the verse. I’ll bring 
it all right when I turn in to smoothing out.” 

William Calvert gave the required assurance ; and, with 
few more preliminaries — for Ned Hinkley was a down- 
right, to-the-purpose, matter-of-fact fellow— with little non- 
sense or conceit about him, and no affectations — he recited, 
or rather chanted, the following rude ballad, which, for the 
backwoods muse, Calvert was inclined to think a very cred- 
itable performance ; and we quite agree with him, and could 
wish to see it married to corresponding harmonies by some 
such priest in music as Mr. Russell : — 


I. 

“ You ask me why I love her — 

Why my heart, no longer free, 
is no more a winged rover, 

Like the forest-bird or bee : 

Ah ! love still hath its season, 

For the heart as for the tree ; 
Would you have a better reason. 
Then my love loves me ! 

I know it well, I know it — 
My love loves me ! 

II. 

“ You say she is not beautiful. 

And it may be so to you ; 

But she’s very fond and dutiful. 

And she’s very kind and true ; 
And there’s beauty in the tenderness 
That every eye can see, 

And something more than loveliness 
In the love she feels for me ! 

I know it well, &c. 

III. 

** She’s no strong-minded woman. 

And in weighty things unwise ; 
But a loving heart, all human. 

Is to me a dearer prize : 


364 


BKAUCHAMPE. 


And tlierc’s a sovereign wisdom 
In much loving, do you sec ; 

And a pure young soul, in a loving breast. 
Makes a woman wise for me ! 

I know it well, &c. 


IV. 

“ You may talk of stately damsels. 

With keen wit and manners fine — 

But a true young heart’s affections 
Ao-e the jewels dear to mine ! 

And I own enough of splendor. 

When her loving eyes I see ; 

And I hear sufficient wisdom, 

When she murmurs love to me ! 

I know it well, &c. 

V. 

“ You may try her faith, and tell her 
Of a prouder suitor still — 

One whose name and wealth may bring her 
To whatever state she will ; 

That I’ve naught to boast of power — 
Neither wealth nor fame — yet she 
Will smile — so well I know her — 

And still give her love to me ! 

I know it well, &c.” 


“There — you have it! Now, that’s what I call good 
sense, Willie Calvert, and no bad poetry either.” 

“It is positively beautiful, Ned, and contains more of 
the true philosophy of love and marriage than half the trea- 
tises ever written. Positively, Ned, you surprise me ! 
Your improvement is prodigious. You must set up the 
poetical sign. Were you, now, in some of the great cities, 
following up some of the popular singers, you could have 
that ballad united to music which would make your name 
famous.” 

“I thought you’d like it, Willie — I knew you would. 
It is a good ballad, Willie — very good ; and it’s true, Wil- 
lie. Sallie Bernard deserves it all. She’s the very woman 
of the verses.” 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OP LOVE. 365 

‘‘ And slie has accepted you, Ned 

“ On the fifteenth day of the very next November, Willie, 
we go into cohoot for life — God willing, and weather per- 
mitting.” 

William Calvert warmly congratulated his kinsman, and 
closed the speech with a deep sigh from the very bottom 
of his heart. 

“ Don’t sigh, William. Your time will come yet. Ah ! 
if you had only fancied some such true, sweet, humble- 
hearted, and devoted girl as Sallie, instead of that proud, 
great-eyed, outlawed woman, Margaret Cooper — ” 

“ Hush, hush, Ned! — name her not !” 

The other muttered something more, no doubt expressive 
of the indignation which he felt at the treatment his cousin 
had received from Margaret Cooper. The good fellow had 
never admired that damsel. He was, in truth, afraid of 
her. She was the only person that had ever fairly awed 
him into distance and apprehension. While he still mut- 
tered, William Calvert said: — 

“ Open that desk, Ned, and hand me the book in a blue 
cover which you will find in it.” 

This was done. 

“ I, too, have written some verses lately, Ned, which 
somewhat relate to my own affections. They are, by no 
means, so good as yours, but they will enforce my plea to 
you for forbearance in reference to Margaret.” 

And, without further word, William read the following 
apostrophe : — 

“ Speak not the name, in scorn or blame, 

Nor link her thought with aught of shame, 

Nor ask of me, the guilt to see 
That tore my blossom from the tree ! 

“We may not crush the thought, or hush 
The tale that still compels the blush .* 

Bat we may chide the speech, and hide 
The shame, that else would torture pride ! 


366 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Deep in the heart, a thing apart, 

We shrine the memory of the smart ; 

And only gaze on happier days, 

When Love and Pride could gladly praise. 

“ There let me hold, nor cheap nor cold, 

The image shrined I loved of old ; 

There let me know the charm, the glow. 

And not the shame, the guilt, the wo ! 

“ Beneath that spell, still let her dwell. 

Pure, binght, as when I loved so well — 
Where, haply taught, the older thought 
Can see of fall or frailty naught. 

“ With Love for guest, the faithful breast 
Shuts out all entrance to the rest, 

And asks no more, from Memory’s store. 
Than what the heart can still adore. 

“ Oh ! when she grew, no more in view. 

The starlike thing that once I knew, 

I deemed her fled, I wept her dead — 

Not frail, not shamed, but lost instead. 

“ Her fall, though fraught with grief, has taught 
Love’s lesson to the sterner thought ; 

And Grief’s worst moan now takes its tone 
From what young Memories loved alone !” 


. “Ah! Willie, that’s a poetical huckleberry above my 
sour rhyming persimmon. How well you do those things ! 
Why, that’s a sort of treble-shotted verse. Now, those 
cursed rhymes won’t come to me when I call for ’em ! — 
They are as obstinate as those abominable spirits of ‘ the 
vasty deep’ that turned a deaf ear to Mr. Glendower. You 
must help me, Willie, to polish my ballad, before I send it 
to Sallie Bernard.” 

“ Don’t touch it, Ned ; it needs no polishing. It is as 
nearly perfect as you can make it. Its very carelessness 
is in its favor as a song. It shows it to be an outpouring, 
a gushing upward, of the fancy, which is the true proof of 
a good thing for music. No, no ! don’t touch it. Its sim- 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 


367 


plicity is its secret. One sees that the art has been entirely 
subservient to Nature, as it always should be in such things. 
But, go and ramble now, Ned, and leave me for a while to 
slumber. Your talk and my own, with such subjects as we 
have been dealing with, have left me a little too much ex- 
cited. Go, and write to Sallie.” 

“ ’Gad ! if she were here !” cried the tall fellow, stretch- 
ing out his arms as if to embrace the universe — 

“If she were only here — smack!” And, so saying, he 
disappeared. 


368 


BEAUCHAMPB. 


CHAPTER XXXVII, 

THE MEETING. 

And do we meet again, 

After that mournful parting ! Both how changed ; 

You with new pinions — mine all soiled and broken !” 

It was when William Calvert had regained his legs and 
bogan to resume his custcmary v cations, that Ned Hink- 
Ly suddenly mad^ his ap^/earance, one day, almost bursting 
with excitement. The story of the Beauchampes had 
reached his ears ; the marriage of Margaret Cooper with 
P-eauchampe, and the subsequent murder of Colonel Sharpe. 
He was the first to reveal the whole tragedy to the Cal- 
verts. 

It was a story to make them gloomy enough — to strike 
them into silence. When they could speak of the subject, 
it was only in language so inadequate that the topic was 
dropped as by mutual consent. 

“ Can we do anything for them ?” was the question of 
William Calvert. 

It was one which all parties strove to answer but in 
vain. 

Ned Hinkley alone lingered over the subject. 

“ It was her doings, all. She, no doubt, beguiled the 
young fool into marriage. She prompted him to avenge 
her dishonor on the head of Sharpe. I would have done it 
myself, with half an opportunity, but I would have shot my- 
self sooner than received the reward.’’ 


THE MEETING. 


86D 


William Calvert rebuked the speech in his sternest man- 
ner, and Ned Hinkley rode off, happy in the prospect of a 
wife who was not a strong-minded woman. He left the two 
Calverts to brood together over the melancholy narrative 
which they had heard. 

We have already formed a sufficient idea of the dwelling 
which William Calvert occupied — a dwelling in just corre- 
spondence with his improved fortunes. The reader will 
please go with us while we re-enter it. Ned Hinkley has 
been gone some two hours. We ascend the neat and always 
well-swept porch, and pass through the common hall into 
the parlor. It has now but a single occupant. Old Calvert 
is there alone. His adopted son has retired to his cham- 
ber. He broods alone on the fate of Margaret Cooper, and 
of the wretched young man to whom she has been a fate. 
The old man broods also, sadly too on the same subject, 
but he is so happy in his own protege, that his mind does 
not yield itself with any intensity, to tlie case of other par- 
ties, no matter what their futures. And this is a law of our 
nature, else we should suffer unprofitably from those afflic- 
tions, to which we can offer no relief. 

Old Calvert has become older since we last painted his 
portrait. His hair has grown even more silvery and thin 
and his forehead whiter, more capacious, more polished. 
In other respects, however, he seems to have undergone but 
little change. His skin is quite as smooth as ever ; but 
little wrinkled ; the crows have not trampled very vigor- 
jiisly about the corners of his eyes. His heart is compara- 
tively at ease; his eye is bright as of old — nay, even 
brighter than when we last saw it dilating over the valley 
of Charlcmont : and, perhaps, with reason. His warmest 
hopes have been gratified ; his worst doubts dissipated ; his 
neart has become uplifted. He has realized the pride of a 
lather without suffering the trials and apprehensions of one ; 
and with heart and body equally in health, he is still young 

for a gentle spirit in age, is not a bad beginning of the 
V-* 


370 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


soul’s immortality. He owes this state of mind ani body, 
to a contemplative habit acquired in youth ; to the presence 
of a nice governing sense of justice, and to that abstinence 
which would have justified in him the brag of good old 
Adam, in “ As You Like It — 

“ For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in niy blood ; 

Nor did not, with unbashful forehead woo, 

The means of weakness and debility ; 

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 

Frosty but kindly.” 

The old man sits in the snug, well-cushioned armchair, 
with his eyes cast upward. A smile mantles upon his face. 
His glance rests upon a portrait of his favorite ; and as he 
gazes upon the well-limned and justly-drawn features — and 
as the mild and speaking eye seems to answer to his own 
— the unconscious words tremble out from his lips ! Good 
old man ! — he recalls the early lessons that he gave the 
boy; how kindly they were taken — with what readiness 
they were acquired ; and the sweet humility which followed 
most of his rebukes. Then, he renews the story of the first 
lessons in law — his own struggles and defeats he recalls — 
only, as it would seem, to justify the exultation which an- 
nounces, under his guidance, the better fortunes of the 
youth. 

And thus soliloquizing, he rises, and mounting a chair, 
dusts the picture with his handkerchief, with a solicitude that 
has seen a speck upon the cheek, and fancies a fly upon the 
hair ! This was a daily tiisk, performed unconsciously, and 
under the same course of spiriting ! 

While thus engaged a servant enters and speaks. He 
answers, but without any thought of what he is saying. 
The servant disappears, and the door is re-opened. The 
v/ld man is still busy at the iicart-prompted duty. His lips 
are equally busy in dilating upon the merits of his favorite. 
He still wipes and rewipes the picture ; draws back to ex 


THE MEETING. 


371 


amine the outline ; comments upon eye and forehead ; and 
dreams not, the while, what eye surveys his toils — what ear 
is listening to the garrulous eulogium that is dropping from 
his lips. The intruder is Margaret Cooper — Mrs. Beau- 
champe w^e should have said — but for a silent preference 
for the former name, for whicli we can give no reason and 
will offer no excuse. 

She stands in silence — she watches the labor of the good 
old man with mixed but not unpleasant feelings. She rec- 
ognises him at a glance. She does not mistake the features 
of that portrait which exacts his care. She gazes on that, 
too, with a very melancholy interest. The features, though 
the same, are yet those of another. The expression of the 
face is spiritualized and lifted. It is the face of William 
Hinkley — true — but not the face of the rustic, whom once 
she knew beneath that name. The salient points of feature 
are subdued. The roughness has disappeared, and is suc- 
ceeded by the entreating sweetness and placid self-subjection 
which shows that the moulding hand of the higher civiliza- 
tion has been there. It is William Hinkley, the gentleman 
— the man of thought, and of the world — whose features 
meet her eye ; and a sigh involuntarily escapes her lips. 
That sigh is tlie involuntary utterance of the self-reproach 
which she feels. Her conscience smites her for the past. 
She thinks of the young man, worthy and gentle, whom she 
slighted for another — and that other! — She remembers 
the youth’s goodness — his fond devotedness; and, forget- 
ting in what respect he erred, she wonders at herself, with 
feelings of increasing humiliation, that she should have re- 
pulsed and treated him so harshly. But, in those days she 
was mad I It is her only consolation that she now thinks 
so. 

Her sigli arrests the attention of the old man and 
awakens him from his grateful abstraction. He turns, be- 
holds the lady, and mutteri.:g something apologetically, 
about the rapid accumulation of dust and cobweb's, he de- 


872 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


scends from the chair. A step nearer to the visiter informs 
him who she is. He starts, and trembles. 

“You, Miss Cooper : can it be ?’’ 

“ It is, Mr. Calvert ; but there is some mistake. I 
sought for Colonel Calvert, the lawyer.” 

“ My son — no mistake at all — be seated. Miss Cooper.” 

“ Your son, Mr. Calvert ?” 

“Yes, my son — your old acquaintance — but here he 
is 

William Calvert, the younger, had now joined the party. 
Ilis entrance had been unobserved. He stood in the door- 
way — his eye fixed upon the object of his former passion. 
His cheeks were very pale; his features were full of emo- 
tion. Margaret turned as tlie old man spoke, and their 
eyes encountered. Wliat were their several emotions then ? 
Who shall tell them ? What scenes, what a story, did that 
one single glance of recognition recall. How much strife' 
and bitterness — what overwhelming passions — and what 
defeat, what shame, and sorrow to the one ; and to the 
other — what triumph over pain — what victory even from 
defeat. To her, from pride, exultation, and estimated tri- 
umph, had arisen shame, overthrow, and certain fear. 
Despair was not yet — not altogether. To the other, “ out 
of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came 
forth sweetness.” From his defeat he was strengthened ; 
and from the very overthrow of his youthful passion, had 
grown the vigor of his manhood. 

The thought of William Calvert, as he surveyed ti*e 
woman of his first love, was a natural one: - ** Had .‘<he 
been mine !” — but with this thought he did not now repine 
at the baffled dream and desire of his boyhood. If the 
memory and reflection were not sweet, at least the bitter 
was one to which his lips had become reconciled by time. 
Recalling the mournful memory of the past, his sorrow was 
now rather for her tl:a ^ for himself. His regret was not 
that ho had been denied, but that she had fallen. Ho rec- 


THE MEETING. 


bV3 

ollected the day of her pride. He recalled the flashes of 
that eagle spirit, which, while it won his admiration, had 
spurned his prayer. The bitter shame which followed, 
when, by crawling, the serpent had reached the summits 
where her proud soul kept in an eyry of its own, oppressel 
his soul as he gazed upon the still beautiful, still majestic 
being before him. She too had kept something of that no- 
ble spirit which was hers before she fell. We have seen 
how she had sustained herself : — 

“ Not yet lost 

All her original brightness, nor appeared 
Less than archangel ruined, and th’ excess 
Of glory obscured — 

and still, as the youth gazed, he wondered — and as he re 
membered, he could not easily restrain the impulse once 
more to sink in homage. But all her story was now knowm 
to him. Of Sharpe’s murder he was aware ; and that the 
wife of the murderer was the same Margaret Cooper, in 
whose behalf he had himself met the betrayer in single com- 
bat, he was apprized by a private letter from Covington. 

While he thus stood beholding, with such evident tokens 
of emotion, the hapless woman who had been the cause, 
and the victim, equally, of so much disaster — what were 
her reflections at the sight of him? At first, wdien their 
eyes encountered, and she could no longer doubt the iden- 
tity of the Colonel Calvert whom she sought, with the Wil- 
liam Hinkley whom she had so long and yet so little known, 
her color became heightened — her form insensibly rose, 
and her eye resumed something of that ancient eagle-look 
of defiance, which was the more natural expression of her 
proud and daring character. She felt, in an instant, all tl.e 
difference between the present and the past ; between his 
fortune and her own — and, naturally assuming that the 
same comparison was going on in his mind, necessarily 
leading to his exaltation at her expense, she was prepared, 


37-1 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


equal look and word, to resent the insolence of his 
triiimph. 

But when, at a second glance, she beheld the unequivo- 
cal giief whicli his looks expressed — when she saw still, 
mat the lire in his heart had not been quenched — that the 
feeling there had nothing in it of triumph — but all of a 
deep abiding sorrow and a genuine commiseration, her man- 
ner changed — the bright, keen expression parted from her 
glance, and her cheek grew instantly pale. But her firm- 
ness and presence of mind returned sooner than his. She 
advanced and extended to him her hand. 

The manner was so frank, so .confiding, that it seemed to 
atone for all the past. It evidently was intended to convey 
the only atonement which, in her situation, she could possi- 
bly oner. It said much more than words, and his heart was 
satisfied, lie took her hand and conducted her to a seat. 
He was silent. It was with great difficulty that he with- 
held the expression of his tears. 

“ You know me. Colonel Calvert,” she at length said. “ I 
see you know me.” 

‘‘ Could you think otherwise, Margaret ?” he succeeded 
in replying. “ Could I forget ?” 

“ No ! not forget, perhaps,” she returned ; ‘‘ but you 
seem not to understand me. My person, of course, you 
know — who I was — but not who I am ?” 

“ Yes — even that too I know.” 

Then something is spared me !” she replied with tlie 
sigh of one wlio is relieved from a painful duty. 

“I know the whole sad story, Margaret — Mrs. Beau- 
champe. Caii I serve you, Margaret — is it for this you 
seek me ?” 

‘at is.” 

•‘I am ready. I will do what I can. But it will be ne- 
cessary to see Mr. Beauchampe.” 

Can not that be avoid.*'! ? I confess, I come to you 
tvithout his sanction or authority. He is unwilling to seek 


THE MEETING. 


375 


assistance from the law, and proposes either to argue his 
own case, or to leave it, unargued, to the just sense of the 
community.” 

The youth mused in silence for a few moments, before he 
replied. At length : — 

“I will not hide from you, Margaret — forgive me — 
Mrs. Beauchampe — the danger in which your husband 
stands. The frequency of such deeds as that for which he 
is indicted, has led to a general feeling on the part of the 
community, that the laws must be rigorously enforced. 
But—” 

She interrupted him with some vehemence : “ But the 
provocation of the villain he slew — ” 

She stopped suddenly. She trembled, for the truth had 
been revealed in her inadvertence. 

“ What have I said !” she exclaimed. 

“ Only what shall be as secret with me, Margaret, as with 
yourself — ” 

“ Oh, more so, I trust !” she ejaculated. 

“ Do not distress yourself with this. Understand me. 
It was to gather from Mr. Beauchampe the whole truth, 
that I desired to see him. To do him justice, I must know 
from him what may be known by others, and which might 
do him hurt. It is to prepare for the worst, that I would 
seek to know the worst. I will return with you to Frank- 
fort. I will see him. He, as a lawyer, will better under- 
stand my purpose than yourself.” 

“Ah! I thank you — I thank you, William Hinkley. I 
feel that I do not deserve this at your hands. You are 
avenged — amply avenged — for all the past!” 

She covered her face with her hands. Memories, bitter 
memories, were rushing in upon her soul. 

“ Speak not thus, Margaret,” replied the youth in sub- 
dued and trembling accents. “ I need no such atonement 
as this. Believe me, to know what you were, and should 
liave been, Margaret, and see you thus, brings to me no 


376 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


feelings but those of shame and sorrow. Such promise — 
such pride of promise, Margaret — ” 

“Ah! indeed! such pride — such pride! — and what a 
fall! — there could not be a worse, William — surely not a 
worse ! — ” 

“ But there is hope still, Margaret — there is hope.” 

“ You will save him !” she said, eagerly. 

“ I trust,” said he, “ that there is hope for him. I will 
try to save him.” 

“ I know you will — I know you will ! But, even then, 
there is no hope. I feel like a wreck. Even if we founder 
not in this storm — even if you save us, William — it will 
be as if some once good ship, shattered and shivered, was 
carried into port by some friendly prow — only to be aban- 
doned as then no longer worth repair. These storms have 
shattered me, William — shattered me quite! I am no 
longer what I was — strong, proud, confident. I fear, 
sometimes, that my brain will go wild. I feel that my 
mind is failing me. I speak now with an erring tongue. 
I scarcely know what I say. But I speak with a faith in 
you, I believe, William, you were always true.” 

“ Ah, had you but believed so then^ Margaret ! — ” 

“ I did ! I did believe so !” 

“Ah, could it have been, Margaret ! — could you have 
only thought — ” 

“No more — say no more!” she exclaimed, hurriedly, 
with a sort of shudder. “ Say no more !” 

“ Had it been,” he continued, musingly — “ could it have 
been, there had been now no wreck. Neither of us had 
felt these storms. We had both been happy!” 

“No, no! speak not thus, William Hinkley!” she ex- 
claimed, rising, and putting on a stern look and freezing 
accent. “The past should be — is — nothing now to us. 
Nor could it have been as you say. There was a fate to 
humble me ; and I am here now to sue for your succor. 
You have nothing to deplore. You have fortune which you 


THE MEETING. 377 

could not hope, fame which you did not seek — everything 
to make you proud, and keep you happy.’’ 

“ I am neither proud nor happy, Margaret. You — ” 

“ Enough !” she exclaimed. “ You have promised to 
strive in his behalf. Save him^ William Hinkley — and if 
prayer of mine can avail before Heaven, you will feel this 
want no longer. You must be happy !” 

“ Happy, Margaret? — I do not hope for it!” 

She extended him her hand. He took it, and instantly 
released it, though not before a scalding tear had fallen 
from his eyes upon it. Further hxrewell than tliis they had 
none. She looked round for old Mr. Calvert, but he was 
no longer in the apartment. 


a78 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXYIII 

« GUILTY !” 

We pass over the interviews between Beauchampe and 
William Calvert. At none of these was the wife present. 
The former was satished to accept the services of one who 
approached him with the best manners of the gentleman, 
and the happy union, in his address, of the sage and law- 
yer ; and he freely narrated to him all the particulars of 
that deed for which he was held to answer. Calvert was 
^ ut in possession of all that was deemed nececisary to the 
'^efonce, or rather of all that Beauchampe knew. 

But, either the latter did not know a//, or perjury was 
an easily-bought commodity upon his trial. There were 
witnesses to swear to his footsteps, to his voice, his face, 
his words, his knife and clothes ; though he believed that 
no living eye, save that of the Omniscient, beheld him in 
his approaches to commit the deed. The knife which struck 
the blow w as buried in the earth. The clothes which he 
wore were snnk in the river. Yet a knife was produced 
on the trial as that which liad pierced the heart of the vic- 
tim ; and witnesses identified him in garments which he no 
longer possessed, and in which, according to his belief, they 
had never seen him ! 

It is possible that he deceived himself. There can be 
n: doubt that he was just enough of the maniac, while car- 
rying :)ut the monomania which made him so, to be con- 
scious of little else but the one stirring, all-absorbing 


GUILTY \” 


379 


passion in his mind. Such a man walks the streets, and 
sees no form save that which occupies his imagination ; 
speaks his purpose in soliloquy which his own ears never 
heed ; fancies himself alone, tliough surrounded by specta- 
tators. Ills microcosm is within. He has, while the lead- 
ing idea is busy in his soul, no consciousness of any world 
without. 

Could we record the argument of Calvert — analyze for 
tlie reader the voluminous and not always consorting testi- 
mony, as he analyzed it for the court — and repeat, word 
for w'ord, and look for look, the exquisite appeal which he 
offered to the jury — we should be amply justified in occu- 
pying, in these pages, the considerable space which such a 
record would require. But we dare not make the attempt ; 
the more particularly, as, however able and admirable, the 
speech failed of its effect. Eyes were wet, sighs were au- 
dible at its close ; but the jury, if moved by the eloquence 
of the advocate, were obdurate, so far as concerned the 
prisoner. The verdict was rendered “ Guilty !’^ and, with 
the awful word, Mrs. Beauchampe started to her feet, and 
accused herself to the court, not only of participating in 
the offence, but of prompting it. It was supposed to be a 
merciful forbearance that Justice permitted herself to be- 
come deaf, as well as blind, on this occasion. Her wild 
asseverations were not employed against her ; and she failed 
of the end she sought^ — to unite her fate, at the close, with 
tnat of him to whom, as she warned him in the beginning, 
she herself was a fate. 

But, though she failed to provoke Justice to prosecution, 
slie was yet not to be baffled in her object. Her resolution 
was tal^eo, to share the doom of her husband. For her he 
had ificurrcd the judgment of the criminal, and her nature 
was too magnanimous to think of surviving him. She re- 
solved upon death in her own case, and at the same time 
resolved on defeating, in his, that brutal exposure which 
attends the execution of the laws. But of lier purpose she 


380 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


said nothing — not even to him whom it most concerned. 
With that stern directness of purpose which formed so dis- 
tinguishing a trait in her character, she made her prepara- 
tions in secret. The indulgence of the authorities permit- 
ted her to see her husband at pleasure, and to share with 
him, when she would, the sad privilege of his dungeon. 
This indulgence was not supposed to involve any risk, since 
a guard was designated to maintain a constant watch upon 
the prisoner ; and it docs not seem to have entered into the 
apprehensions of the jailer to provide against any danger 
except that of the convict’s escape. 

The dungeon of the condemned was a close ocll, the only 
entrance to which was by a trap-door from above. Escape 
from this place, with a guard in the upper chamber, was not 
an easy performance, nor did it seem to enter for a moment 
into the calculation or designs of either of the Beauchampes. 
The husband was prepared to die ; and the solemn, though 
secret determination of the wife, had prepared her also. 
The former considered his fate with the feeling of a martyr ; 
and every word of the latter was intended to confirm, in 
his mind, this strengthening and consoling conviction. The 
few days which were left to the criminal were not other- 
wise unsoothed and unlighted from without. Friends came 
to him in his dungeon, and strove, with the diligence of 
love, to convert the remaining hours of his life into profit- 
able capital for the future grand investment of immortality. 
Religion lent her aid to friendship ; and, whether Beau- 
champe did or did not persist in the notion that the crime 
for which he stood condemned was praiseworthy, at all 
events he was persuaded by her unremitting cares and coun- 
sels that he was a sinner — sinning in a thousand respects, 
for which repentance was tlie only grand remedy which 
could atone to God for the wrongs done, and left unre- 
paired, to man. 

Among the friends who now constantly sought the cell of 
the criminal, William Calvert was none of the least punctual. 


GUILTY!” 


3S1 


Beaucliampe became very fond of him, and felt, in a short 
time, the vast superiority of his mind and character over 
those of his late tutor. The wife, meanwhile, with that 
fearless frankness which knows thoroughly the high value 
of the most superior truth — for truth has its qualities and 
degrees, thjough each may be intrinsically pure — had freely 
told her husband the whole history of the early devotion 
of William Calvert, when she knew him as the obscure Wil- 
liam Uinkley ; how, blinded by her own vanity, and the 
obscurity to which the very modesty of the young rustic 
had subjected him, she despised his pretensions ; and, for 
the homage of the sly serpent by whom she had been de- 
ceived — beguiled with his lying tongue, and pleased with 
his gaudy coat — had slighted the superior worth of the 
former, and treated his claims with a scorn as little de- 
served by him as becoming in her. Sometimes, Beaucliampe 
spoke of this painful past in the history of his wife and vis- 
iter, and the reference now did not seem to give pain, at 
least to the former. The reason was good : she had done 
with the past. The considerations which now filled her 
mind were all of a superior nature ; and she listened to her 
husband, even when he spoke on this theme in the presence 
of William Calvert himself, with an unmoved and unabashed 
countenance. The latter possessed no such stoicism. At 
such moments his heart beat with a wildly-increased rapidity 
of pulsation, and he felt the warm flush pass over his cheeks 
as vividly and quickly now as in the days of his first youth- 
ful consciousness of love. 

It was the evening preceding the day iif execution. The 
dark hours were at hand. The guard of the prison had 
warned the visiters to depart. The divine had already 
gone. The drooping sisters of Beaucliampe were about to 
go for the night, moaning wildly as they went, in anticipa- 
tion of the day of awful moan which was approaching. Fond 
and fervent, and very sad, was the parting, though for the 
night only, which the condemned gave to these dear twin- 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


£^82 

buds of his affections. It was a pang spared to him that 
Lis poor old mother was too sick to see him. When he 
thought of her, and of the unspeakable misery which would 
be hers were she present, he felt the grief lessened which 
followed from the thought that their eyes might never more 
tncounter. 

But the sisters went — all went but William Calvert; 
and he seemed disposed to linger to the last permitted mo- 
ment. His thoughts were less with the condemned man 
than with the wife. His eyes were fixed upon the same 
object. Ills anxiety and surprise increased with each mo- 
ment of his gaze. Whence could arise that strange seren- 
ity which appeared in her countenance ? Where did she 
find that strength which, at such an hour, could give her 
composure ? Nor was it serenity and composure alone 
which distinguished her air, look, and carriage. There 
was a holy intentness, a sublime decision in her look, which 
filled him with apprehension. He knew the daring of her 
character — the bold disposition which had always possessed 
her to dare the dark and the unknown — and his prescient 
conjecture divined her intention. 

She sat behind her husband, on his lowly pallet. Cal- 
vert occupied a stool at its foot. Beauchampe had been 
speaking freely with all his visiters. He was only moved 
by the feeling of his situation on separating from his sis- 
ters. At all other periods he was tolerably calm, and 
sometimes his conversation ran into playfulness. Wlien 
we say playfulness, we do not mean to be understood as 
intimating his indulgence of mere fun and jest, which would 
have been as inconsistent with his general character as with 
the solemn responsibility of his situaiion. But there was 
an ease of heart about what he said — an elastic freedom — 
which insensibly colored, with a freshness and vitality, the 
idea which he uttered. 

“Sit closer to me, Anna,’’ he said to his wife — “sit 
closer. We are not to be so long together, that we can 


GUILTY!” 


383 


spare tlierc moments. We have no time for distance and 
formality. Calvert will excuse this fondness, however an- 
noying it might seem between man and wife at ordinary 
periods.’’ 

He took her hand in his as she drew nign, (ind passed his 
arm fondly about her waist. She was silent ; and Calvert, 
thinking of the conjecture which had been awakened in his 
mind by the deportment of the wife, was too full of serious 
tind startling thoughts to be altogether assured of what 
Beauchampo was saying. The latter continued, after a 
brief pause, by a reference of some abruptness to the past 
history of the two : — 

“ It seems to me the strangest thing in the world, Anna, 
that you should ever have refused to marry our friend Cal- 
vert. My days,” he said, turning to the latter as he spoke 
— “ my days of idle speech and vain flattery are numbered, 
Calvert ; and you will do me the justice to believe that I 
am not the man to waste words at any time in worthless 
compliment. Certainly I will not now. But, since I have 
known you, I feel that I could wish to know no more desi- 
rable friend ; and how my wife could have rejected you fc 
any other person — I care not whom — I do not exclude 
myself — I can not understand, unless by supposing that 
there is a special fate in such matters, by which our best 
judgments are set at naught, and our wisest plans baffled. 
Had she married you^ Calvert — ” 

“ Why will you speak of it ?” said Calvert, with an ear- 
nestness of tone which yet faltered. The wife was still 
silent. Beauchampe answered : — 

“ Because I speak as one to whom the business of life is 
over. I am speaking as one from the grave. The pascions 
are dumb within me. The strifes are over. The vain doli 
cacies of society seem a child’s play to me now. Besides, 
I speak regretfully. For her sake, how much better had 
it been ! Instead of being, as she is now, the wife of a 
convict, doomed to a dog’s death ; instead of the long strife 


BEAUCH^:iF3. 


38 <. 

tLrouo’h which she has gone; of the niter waste 

of that proud genius which might, under other fortunes, 
have taken such noble flights, and attained such a noble 
eminence — ” 

The wife interrupted him with a smile : — 

“ Ah, Beauchampe, you are supposing that the world has 
but one serpent — but one Alfred Stevens ! The eagle in 
his flight may escape one arrow, but who shall insure him 
against the second or the third ? I suspect that few per- 
sons at the end of life — of a long life — looking back, with 
all their knowledge and experience, could recommence the 
journey and find it any smoother or safer than at first. He 
is the best philosopher who, when Tne time comes to die, 
can wash his hands of life the soonest, with the least effort, 
and dispose his robes most calmly — and so gracefully — 
around him. Do not speak of what I have lost, and of 
what I have suffered. Still less is it needful that you should 
speak of our friend’s affairs. We are all chosen, I suspect. 
Our fortunes are assigned us. That of our friend was never 
more favorable than when mine prompted my refusal of his 
kind offer. I was not made for him, nor he for me. We 
might not have been happy together ; and for the best rea- 
son, since I was too blind and ignorant to see what I should 
have seen — that the very humility which I despised in him 
was the source of his strength, and would have been of my 
security. I now congratulate him that I was blind to his 
"uerits. n3 will live; he will grow stronger with each 
succeeding day ; fortune will smile upon his toils, and fame 
will follow them. At least, we will pray, Beauchampe, that 
such wi:^ be the case. At parting, William Hinkley — I 
can not call you by the other name now — at parting, for 
ever — believe this assurance. You shall have our prayers 
and blessings — such as they are — truly, fondly, my friend, 
for we owe much to your help and sympathy.” 

“ For ever, Margaret ! — Why should you say for 
ever ?” 


GUILTY !” 


385 


Oalvert fastened his eyes upon her as she spoke. She 
met the glance unmoved, and replied : — 

“ Will it not be for ever ? To-morrow which deprives 
me of Am, deprives me of the world. I must hide from it. 
I have no more business with it, nor it with me. I have 
still some sense of shame — some feelings of sacred sorrow 
— which I should be loath to expose to its busy finger. Is 
not this enough, William Calvert 

“ But I am not the world. Friends you will still need ; 
my good, old father — ’’ 

She shook her head. 

“ I know what you would say, William : I know all your 
goodness of heart, and thank you from the very bottom of 
mine. Let it suffice that, should I need a friend after to- 
morrow, I shall seek none other than you.’’ 

“ Margaret,” said William, impressively, “ you can not 
deceive me. I know your object. I see it in your eyes — 
in those subdued tones. I am sure of what you purpose.” 

“ What puipose ? what do you mean ?” demanded Bean- 
champe 

Before he could be answered by Calvert the wife had 
spoken. She addressed herself to the latter. 

“ And if you do know it, William Hinkley, you know it 
only by the conviction in your own heart of what, if not un- 
avoidable, is at least necessary. Speak not of it — give it 
no thought, and only ask of yourself what, to me, to such a 
soul as mine, would be life after to-morrow’s sun has set ! 
Go now — the guard calls. You will see us in the morn 
ing.” 

“ Margaret — for your soul’s sake — ” 

The expostulation was arrested by the repeated summons 
of the guard. The wife put her finger on her lips in sign 
of silence. Calvert prepared to depart, but could not for- 
bear whispering in her ears the exhortation which he had 
begun to speak aloud. She heard him patiently to the 
end, and sweetly, but faintly smiling, she shook her head, 

17 


386 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


making no other answer. The hoarse voice of the guard 
again summoned the visiter, who reluctantly rose to obey. 
He shook hands with Eeauchampe, and Margaret followed 
him to the foot of the ladder. When he gave her his hand 
she carried it to her lips. 

“ God bless you, William Hinkley she murmured. 
‘‘ You are and have been a noble gentleman. Remember 
me kindly, and oh ! forgive me that I did you wrong, that 
I did not do justice to your feelings and your worth. Per- 
haps it was better that I did not.” 

“ Let me pray to you, Margaret. Do not — oh ! do not 
what you design. Spare yourself.” 

“Ay, William, I will! Shame, certainly, the bitter 
mock of the many — the silent derision of the few — deceit 
and fraud — reproach without and within — all these will I 
spare myself.” 

“ Come ! come !” said the guard gruffly, from above, 
“ will you never be done talking ? Leave the gentleman t© 
his prayers. His time is short !” 

And thus they parted for the night. 


FATAL PURPOSES. 




CHAPTER XXXIX. 

FATAL PURPOSES. 

“ What did Calvert mean, Anna, when he said he knew 
your purpose ?’’ was the inquiry of Beauchampe, when she 
returned to his side; “what do you intend ? — what pur- 
pose have you ?’’ 

She put her hand upon her lips in sign of silence, then 
looked up to the trap-door, which the guard was slowly 
engaged in letting down. When this was done, she ap- 
proached him, and drawing a vial from her bosom dis- 
played it cautiously before his eyes. 

“ For me !” he exclaimed — “ poison P’ 

A sort of rapturous delight gathered in his eyes as he 
clutched the vial. 

“ Enough for both of us !” was the answer. “ It is laud- 
anum.” 

“ Enough for both, Anna ! Surely you can not mean — ” 

“ To share it with you, my husband. To die with you, 
as you die for me.” 

“Not so! This must not be. Speak not — think not 
thus, my wife. Such a thought makes me wretched. There 
is no need that you should die.” 

“ Ay, but there is, Beauchampe. 1 should suffer much 
worse were I to live. Whore could I live ? How could 1 
live? To be the scorned, and the slandered — to provoke 
the brutal jest, or more brutal violence of the fopling and 
the fool ! For, who that knows my story, will believe in 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


-i'ly virtue ; and who that doubts, will scruple to approach 
me as if he knew that I had none ! If I have neither joy 
nor security in life, why should I live ; and if death keeps 
us together, Beauchampe, why should I fear to die ? Should 
I not rather rejoice, my husband ?” 

Ah ! but of that we know nothing. That is the doubt 
— the curse, Anna !” 

“ I do not doubt — I can not. Our crime, if crime it be, 
is one — our punishment will doubtless be one also.” 

“ It were then no punishment. No, Anna, live ! You 
have friends wlio will protect you — who will respect and 
love you. There is Colonel Calvert — ” 

“ Do not speak of him, Beauchampe. Speak of none. 
I am resolute to sliarc with you the draught. We tread the 
dark valley together.” 

“ You shall not ! It is in ray grasp — no drop shall pass 
your lips. It is enough for me only.” 

“ Ah, Beauchampe ! would you be cruel ?” 

“ Kind only, dear wife. I can not think of you dying — 
so young, so beautiful, and born with such endowments — 
BO formed to shine, to bless — ” 

“ To kill rather — to blight, Beauchampe ; to darken the 
days of all whom I approach. This has ever been my fate ; 
it shall be so no longer. Beauchampe, you can not baffle 
me in my purpose. Sec ! — even if you refuse to share with 
me the poison, I have still another resource.” 

She drew a knife from her sleeve and held it up before 
his eyes, but beyond the reach of his arm. 

“ Oh ! why will you persist in this, my wife ? Why make 
these few moments, which are left me, as sad as they are 
short and fleeting.” 

“ I seek not to do so, dear husband ; nor should my reso- 
lution have this effect. Would you have me live for such 
sorrows, such indignities, as I have described to you.” 

“ You would not suffer them ! Give me the knife, Anna.” 

“ No ! my husband !” She restored it to her sleeve. “ I 


FATAL PURPOSES. 

have sworn to die with you, and no powe: on arth shai. 
persuade me to survive.” 

“ Not my entreaties — my prayers, Anna!’' 

“ No ! Beauchainj)© ! — not oven y ur prayers shall 
change my purpose.” 

“ Nay, tlicii, will call ths guard i” 

“And if you a:. Eeauchairipe, the sound of joui vcice 
shall bo the sigiie for me tc strike. Believe me, husbanJ, 
1 do not speak idiy P’ 

The knife vac again withdrawn from her sleeve as she 
Dpoko, ani tr.e bared point placed upon her bosom. 

“ x^iit it up, dearest ; I promise not to call. Put it up, 
.^roui sight. Believe me — I will not call !” 

“ Do not, Beauchampe ; and do no^^ 1 implore you, again 
seek to disturb my resolution. Move me you can not. I 
have reached it only by calmly considering what I am, and 
what would be left me when yon are gone. I have seen 
enough in this examination to make me turn with loathing 
from the prospect. I know that it can not be more so be- 
hind tlic curtain : and we will raise it together.” 

“ The assurance, Anna, is sweet to my soul, but I would 
still implore you against this resolution To be undivided 
even in death conveys a feeling to my heart like rapture, 
and brings back to it a renewed hope ; yet 1 dare not think 
of your suffering and pain. I dread the idea of death when 
it relates to you.” 

“ Think rather, my husband, that I share the hope and 
the rapture of which you speak. Believe me only, that I 
joy also in the conviction that in death we shall not be 
divided. Tlie mere bitter of the draught or the pain of the 
stroke is not w’ortliy of a thought. The assurance that 
there will be no interrup.tioii in our progress together — 
that death, with us, wul bo nothing but a joint setting forth 
in company on a new journey and into another country — 
that is worthy of every thcugiii. and should he the only 
one!” 


H90 ' 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Ay, but that country, Anna ?” 

“ Can not be more full of wo and bitter than this hath 
been to us.’’ 

“It may ! I have read somewhere, my wife, a vivid de- 
scription of two fond lovers — fondest among the fond — 
born, as it were, for each other — devoted, as few have been 
to one another ; who, by some cruel tyrant were thrown 
into a dungeon, and ordered to perish by the gnawing pro- 
cess of hunger. At first, they smiled at such a doom. They 
believed that their tyrant lacked ingenuity in his capacity 
for torture, for he had left them together I Together, they 
were strong and fearless. Love made them light-hearted 
even under restraint ; and they fancied a power of resist- 
ance in themselves, so united, to endure the worst forms of 
torment. For a few days they did so. They cheered each 
other. They spoke the sweetest, soothing words. Their 
arms were linked in constant embrace. She hung upon his 
neck, and he bore her head upon his bosom. Never had 
they spoken such sweet truths — such dear assurances. 
Never had their tendernesses been so all-compensating. 
Perhaps they never had been so truly happy together, at 
least for the first brief day of their confinement. Their 
passion had been refined by severity, and had acquired new 
vigor from the pressure put upon it. But as the third day 
waned, they ceased to link their arms together. They re- 
coiled from the mutual embrace. They shrunk apart. They 
saw in each other’s eyes, a something rather to be feared 
than loved. Famine was there, glaring like a wolf. The 
god was transformed into a demon ; and in another day 
the instinct of hunger proved itself superior to the magnan- 
imous sentiment of love. Tlie oppressor looked in on the 
fourth day, through the grated- window upon his victims — 
and lo ! the lips of the man were dripping with the blood, 
drawn from the veins of his beloved one. His teeth were 
clenched in her white shoulder ; and he grinned and growled 


FATAL PURPObES. 391 

above his unconscious victim, even as the tiger, 7cu 

have disturbed ere he has finished with his prey.” 

“ Horrible ! But she submitted — she repined not. Eei 
moans were unheard. She sought not, in like manner, to 
pacify the baser, beastly cravings, at the expense of him 
she loved. Hers was love, Beauchampe — his was pas- 
sion.” 

“ Alas I my wife, what matters it by what name jtve seek 
to establish a distinction between the sentiments and pas- 
sions ? In those dreadful extremes of situation, from which 
our feeble nature recoils, all passions and sentiments run 
into one. We love ! — Before Heaven, my wife, I conscien- 
tiously say, and as conscientiously believe, that I love you 
as passionately as I can love, and as truly as woman evs:.- 
was beloved by man. It is not our love that fails us, in th:> 
hour of physical and mental torment. It is our strength 
Thought and principle, truth and purity, are poor defences, 
when tlie frame is agonized with a torture beyond what iia 
ture was intended to endure. Then the strongest man de 
serts his faith and disavows his principles. Then the pn.”e3 . 
becomes profligate, and the truest dilates in falsehood. Il 
is madness, not the man, that speaks. It was madness, .\o 
the man, that drunk from the blue veins of tlie beloved oi 
and clenched his dripping teeth in her soft white shouldei , 
The very superior strength of his blood, was the cause cf 
his early overthrow of reflection. As, in this respect, she 
was the weaker, so her mind, and consequently, die sweet 
pure sentiments which were natural to her mind, i je longest 
maintained its and their ascendency, and preserved her 
from the loathsome frenzy to which the man was driven • 
Ah, of this future, dear wife! This awful, unknowr fu- 
ture 1 Fancy scn;e penal doom like this — fancy some tiger 
rage in mo — depriving me of the reason, and the sentiments 
which have made me love you, and made me wliat I am - 
fancy, in place of tee man, the frenzied beast, raging in 
his bloody thirst, r nding in his savage hunger — drinking the 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


b ■ ■'■j?- Tom the beloved one’s veins — tearing the flesh from 
.ts. c oio white shoulder ! This thought — this fear, Anna — ” 
is neither thought nor fear of mine ! God is good and 
gracious. I am not bold to believe in my own purity of 
heart, or propriety of conduct. I am a sinner, Beauchampe 
— a proud, stern, fierce sinner. I feel that I am — I would 
that I were otherwise, and I pray for Ilcaveii’s help to be- 
come otherwise — but, sinner as I am, I neither fear nor 
believe, that such penal dooms are reserved for any degi*ee 
rf sin. The love of pliysical torture is an attribute with 
which man has dressed the Deity. As such torture can not 
be liuman, so it can not be godlike. I can believe that we 
may be punished by privation — by denial oi trust— by 
degradation to inferior offices — but it is the brutal imagi- 
nation that ascribes to God a deliglitin brutal punishments. 
Nowhere do we see in nature such a feeling manifested. 
Life is everywhere a thing of beauty. Smiles are in heaven, 
sweetness on earth, the winds bring it, the airs breatlie it, 
r>tars smile it, blossoms store and difluse it — man, alone, 
defaces and destroys, usurps, vitiates, and overthrows. It 
was man, not God, who, in your story, was tlic oppressor. 
He made the prison, and thrust the victims into it. It was 
cot God! And shall God be likened to such a monster ? 
/Vhat idea can we have of the Deity to wlioni such charac- 
teristics are ascribed ! — ” 

— ‘‘ I go yet farther,” she added, after a pause. “ I do 
not think, even if our sins incur the displeasure of God, that 
his treatment of us, however harsh, will be meant as pun- 
ishment. That it will be punishment, I doubt not ; but this 
will be with him a secondary consideration. We are his 
subjects, in his world, employed to carry out his various 
purposes, and set to various tasks. Failing in these, we 
are set to such as are inferior — perhaps, not employed at 
all, as being no longer worthy of tj*ust. I can not think uf 
a severer moral infliction. Where all are nusy — triumph- 
antly busy — pressing forward in the glorious tasks of a life 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


393 


which is all soul — to be the only idle spirit — denied to 
share in any mighty consummation — pitied, but abandoned 
by the rest — the proffer of service rejected — the sympathy 
of joint action and enterprise denied — a spirit without 
wings — a sluggish personification of moral sloth, and that 
too, in such an empire as God’s own — in his very sight — 
millions speeding beneath his eye at his bidding — all bid, 
all chosen, all beloved but one ! Ah ! Beauchampe, to a 
soul like mine — so earnest, so ambitious as mine has been, 
and is — could there be a worse doom!” 

“ No, dearest ! But the subject is dark, and such specu- 
lations may be bold — too bold !” 

“ Why ? Do I disparage God in them ? Does it not 
seem that such a future could alone be worthy of such a 
present — of such a God, as has made a world so various 
and so wondrous ! methinks, the disparagement is in him 
who ascribes to the Deity such tastes and passions as pre- 
side over the inquisitions and the thousand other plans of 
mortal torture, which have made man the hateful monster 
that we so frequently find liim.” 

“ Let us speak no more of this, Anna. The subject star- 
tles me. It is an awful one !” 

Hers was the bolder spirit. 

“ And should not our thoughts be awful thoughts ? 
other should we have ? The future, alone, is ours — Tii.' 
be ours in a shoi't time. A few hours will bring us to '.uo 
entrance. A few hours will lift the curtain, and the i v. 
that we may not disobey will command us to erter.” 

Not you, Anna — oh ! }iot you ! Let mo brave % ?lom. 
I can not bear to think that you too shouM ''>e ui off in 
your youth — with all that vigorous min V - t^a; -^auty — 
that noble heart- - all crushed, blighted — r.: y. 7- bloom- 
ing brightest— buried in the dust — no ;o speaK, cr 

sing, or feol.^ 

‘‘But th;.y c'c n'.t perish, Beauchamp^. I mignt grew 
coward — 1 migh; cling to this life — could I fane, thore 

17 * 


394 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


were no other. But this faith is one of my strongest con- 
victions. It is an instinct. No reasoning will reach the 
point and establish it, if the feeling be not in our heart of 
hearts. I know that I can not perish quite. I know that 
1 must live ; and that poison -draught, or the thrust of this 
sudden knife, I regard as the plunge which one makes, 
crossing a frail trembling bridge, or hurrying through some 
dark and narrow passage. Do not waste the moments, 
which are so precious, in the vain endeavor to dissuade me 
from a sworn and settled purpose. Bcauchampc, we die 
together !” 

“ Lie down by me, Anna. You should sleep- — you are 
fatigued. You must be weary.” 

“ No ! I am not weary. At such moments as these we 
become all soul. We do not need sleep. With the passage 
of this night we shall never need it again. Think of that, 
Beauchampe ! What a thought it is.” 

“ Terrible !” 

“ Glorious, rather ! Sleep was God’s gift to an animal 
— to restore limbs that could be w'earied — to refresh spir- 
its that could be dull ! What a godlike feeling to know 
that we should need it no longer! — no more yawning — no 
more drowsiness — and that feebleness and blindness, which, 
without any of the securities of death, has all of its incom- 
petencies — when the merest coward might bind, and the 
commonest ruffian abuse, and trample on us. Ah ! the im- 
munities of death! How numerous — how great! What 
blindness to talk of its terrors — to shrink from its glorious 
privileges of unimpeded space — of undiminishing time. 
Already, Beauchampe, it seems %o me as if my wings arc 
growing. I fancy I should not feel any hurt from the 
knife — perhaps, not even taste the poison on my lips.” 

“ Sit by mo, at least, if you will not sleep, Anna.” 

“ I will sit by you., Beauchampe — nay, I wish to do so; 
■/'ut you must promise, not to attempt to dispossess me of tho 
knife. I suir.pcc my husband.” 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


395 


“ "Why suspect me ?” 

‘‘ I perceive it in the tones of your voice : I know what 
you intend. But, believe me, I have taken my rcsoluticn 
from which nothing will move me. Even were you now tc 
deprive me of the weapon, nothing would keep me from U 
long. I should follow you soon, my husband ; and the onl; 
effect of present denial would be to deprive me of the pleas- 
ure of dying with you !’^ 

“ Come to me, my wife ! I will not attempt to disarm 
you. I promise you.’’ 

“ On your love, Beauchampe ?” 

“ With my full heart, dearest. You shall die with me. 
It will be a sweet moment instead of a bitter one. For 
your sake only, my wife, would I have disarmed you — 
but my selfish desires triumph. I will no longer oppose 
you.” 

“ Thanks — thanks !” 

She sprang to him, and clung to his embrace. 

“ Will you sleep ?” he asked, as her head seemed to sink 
upon his bosom. 

“ No, no ! I had not thought of that ! I thought only 
of the moment — the moment when we should leave this 
prison.” 

“ Leave it ?” 

“By death! I am tired, very tired, of these walls — 
these walls of life — that keep us in bonds — put us at the 
mercy of the false and the cruel, the base and the mali- 
cious ! Oh, my husband, we have tried them long enough !” 

“ There is time enough !” he said. “ I would see the 
daylight once more.” 

“ You can only see it through those bars.” 

“ Still, I would see it. We can free ourselves a momsai» 
after.” 

Even while they spoke together, Beauchampe srnfc -nto 
a pleasant slumber. Slie pillowed his head ’:pc:? ner bo 
soin, but had no feeling or thought of s’ :^op. Through the 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


C96 

grated window she saw a few flitting stars. One by one, 
they came into her sphere of vision, gleamed a little while, 
and passed, like the bright, spiritual eyes of the departed 
dear ones. When she ceased to behold them, then she 
knew that the day was at hand ; and the interval of time 
between the disappearance of the stars and the approach 
of dawn, though brief, was dark. 

“ Such,’’ she mused, “ will be that brief period of transi- 
tion, when, passing from the dim, deceptive starlight of this 
life, we enter into the perfect day. That will be momenta- 
rily dark, perhaps. It must be. There may be a state 
of childhood — an imperfect consciousness of the things 
around us — of our own wants — and among these, possi- 
bly, a lack of utterance. Strange, indeed, that the inevi- 
table should still be the inscrutable ! But of what use the 
details ? The great fact is clear to me. Even now things 
are becoming clearer while I gaze. My whole soul seems 
to be one great thought! How strange that he should 
sleep — so soundly, too — so like an infant! He does not 
fear death, that is certain ; but he loves life. I, too, love 
life, but it is not this. Oh, of that other! Could I get 
some glimpses — but this is childish! I shall see it all 
very soon !” 

Beauchampe slept late ; and, bearing his head still on 
her bosom, the sleepless wife did not seek to awake*n liim. 
Through the intensity of her thought, she acquired an 
entire independence of bodily infirmities. The pliysical 
nature, completely controlled by tlie spiritual, was passive 
at her mood. But the soundness of Bcauchampe’s sleep, 
continued, as it was, after day had fairly dawned, awakened 
her suspicions. She searched for the vial of laudanum 
whe"3 she had seen him place it. It was no longer there. 
She jbund it beside him on tlie couch — it was empty ! 

Bui h’e breathing was not suspended. His sleep was 
nature.- r. id, while she anxiously bent over him in doubt 
whethev >.:• stilko at o.ec? v to see what further effects 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


397 


might be produced on him by the potion, he awakened. 
His first words at awakening betrayed the still superior 
feelings of attachment with which he regarded her. His 
voice was that of exultation : — 

“It is over — and we are still together! We are not 
divided !” 

“ No ! but the hour is at hand 1” 

“ What mean you, my love ? I have swallowed the 
laudanum ! — where am I ?” 

His question was answered as his eyes encountered the 
bleak walls of his dungeon, and beheld the light through 
the iron bars of his window. 

“ God ! tlie poison has failed of its effect !” 

His look was that of consternation. Her glance and 
words reassured him. 

“We have still the knife, my husband !” 

“ Ah ! we shall defeat them still !” 


398 


EBAUCFAMPE. 


CHAPTER XL. 

LAST WORDS. 

“On the morning of the fifth of June, cight'T^e?* 
and twenty-six,” says the chronicle, “ the drums WoiO imra 
beating in the streets of Frankfort, and a vast miltit-r.i 
was hurrying toward the gibbet, which was erected on a 
hill without the town.” 

At the sound of this ominous music, and the clamors of 
that hurrying multitude, Beauchampe smiled sadly. 

“ Strange, that men should delight in such a spectacle — 
the cruel death, the miserable exposure, of a fellow-man ! 
— that they should look on his writhings, his distortions, 
his shame and pain, with composure and desire ! It will 
be cruel to disappoint them, Anna ! Will it not ?” 

“ I think not of them, my husband. Oh, my husband, 
could we crowd the few remaining moments with thoughts 
of goodness, with prayers of penitence ! Oh, that I had 
not urged you to the death of Stevens!” 

“ It was right 1” he answered sternly. “ I tell you, Anna, 
the wives and daughters of Kentucky will bless the name 
of Beauchampe !” 

“They should, my husband, for your blow has saved 
many from shame and suffering — has terrified many a. 
»vrong-doer from his purpose. But, though right in you 
to strike, I feel that it was wrong in me to counsel.” 

“ That can not be ! Do not speak thus, my wife. Let 
not our last moments bo embittered by reproach. Let us 


LAST WORDS. 899 

die in prayer rather. Hark! 1 hear visiters — voices — 
.^oiue one approaches !” 

“ "t is William Hinkley !” she exclaimed. 

Thf: guard was heard about to remove the trap-door. 
Dsauchampe looked up, and, a moment after, he heard 
1 • j vife sigh deeply. She then spoke to him, faintly but 
quickly : ‘‘ Take it, my husband ! It is not painful.’’ 

He turned to her, while a sudden coldness seized upon 
his heart. She presented him the knife. 

“ Have you struck ?” he asked, in a husky whisper. The 
wet blade of the knife, already clotty with the coagulating 
blood, answered his question. 

“ Take me in your arms — quickly, quickly, dear husband 
— do not leave me 1 I lose you — oh, I lose you !” 

“ No, never ! I come ! I am with you. Nothing shall 
part us. This unites us for ever I” 

And, with the words, he struck the fatal blow, laid his 
lips on hers, and covered her and himself with the blanket. 

“ This is sweet I” she murmured. ‘‘ I feel you, but I can 
not see you, husband. Who is it comes ?” 

“ Calvert !” 

The young man descended a moment after. His appre- 
hensions were realized. Margaret Cooper was dying — 
dying by her own hands. 

“ Was this well done, Margaret ?” he asked reproachfully. 

“ Ay, William,” she answered firmly, but in feeble tones. 
“ It was well done ! It could not be otherwise, and I find 
dying sweeter than living. You will forgive me, William ?” 

But God, Margaret ? — ” 

“Ah! pray for me — pray for me! — Husband — I am 
losing you. I feel you not. This is death! — it was for 
no — it was all for me ! 0 Beauchampe ! — ” 

“ She is gene !” cried the husband. 

Calvert, who had assisted to support her, now laid the 
inanimate form softly upon the couch. He was dumb. But 
the cry of ‘neanchaiiipe had drawn the attention of the guard. 


400 


BKAUCIIAMP^. 


What is this — what’s the matter?” he demanded. 

^‘Ha! ha! we laugh at you — we defy you!” was the 
exclamation of I’eauchampe, holding up the blocf’.y .irdfe 
with which he had inflicted upon himself a second v '^nd. 
We have slain ourselves.” 

“ God forbid !” cried the officer, wresting the WQ-Liysi 
from the hands of the criminal. 

“ You are too late, my friend : we shall spoil your sport. 
You shall enjoy no public agonies of mine to-day.” 

They brought relief — surgical help — stimulants, and 
bandages. They succored the fainting man, cruelly kind, 
in order that the stern sentence of the laws might be car- 
ried into cfiect. The hour of execution, meanwhile, had 
arrived. They brought him forth in the sight of the as- 
ficmlfled crowd. The fresh air revived the dying man — 
awakening him into full but momentary consciousness. lie 
looked up, and beheld where the windows of some of the 
neigliboriug houses were filled with female forms. He 
lifted his hands to them with a graceful but last effort, 
while he murmured 

“ Daughters of Kentucky ! you, at least, will bless the 
name of Beauchampe ! — ” 

This was all. He then sunk back, as they strove to lift 
him into the cart. Before his feet had pressed the felon- 
vehicle, his eyes closed. He was unconscious of the rest. 
Eartli and its little life was nothing more to him. He had 
also passed behind the curtain I 

And here our narrative might fitly end. We have ic- 
posed of tliose parties whose superior trials and struggles 
constituted the chief interest of our story, custom 

requires something more ; and the curiosity of the reader 
naturally seeks to know what of the fortunes of the subor- 
dinates— such of the minor persons of the drama as, by 
their virtues and good conduct, have established a claim 
upon our rsgtxrds. We, perhaps, need to know whether 


LAST WORDS. 


401 


Ned Iliiiklcy, for example, found his compensative happi- 
ness — as he proposed it to himself — in the affections of the 
fair, simple Sallie Bernard, wlio had so much commended 
herself to his love by forbearing all ‘‘ strong-minded*’ dem- 
onstrations. Well, we may satisfy this curiosity. Ned 
and Sallie are still in the full enjoyment of life and a vig- 
orous old age, with troops of young Nods and Sallies about 
them. We are persuaded that neither of them regrets or 
repents the union which they formed upon such moderate 
expectations of what was due to each other and the public. 
As they did not marry to please the public, so have they 
proved themselves perfectly satisfied with the simple duty 
of pleasing one another. 

Of the mother of Margaret Cooper, tlie mother of Beau- 
champe, and his sisters, we know nothing. They wisely 
sheltered their bleeding hearts in obscurity. 

Old llinklcy and his wife, the parents of William Cal- 
vert, returned from Mississippi to Kentucky, where they 
were living, at last advices, with their son. The success- 
ful career of the latter has, singularly enough, persuaded 
the old man to believe tliat William’s religion was not, 
after all, of so doubtful a character. His own devotions 
are maintained witli the tenacity of his nature ; but, as he 
is satisfied that God approves the virtues whenever he hel})8 
the fortunes of the subject — a notion which is exceedingly 
current among the Pharisaical, whose self-esteem is the 
chief guardian of their religion, and perliaps its only foe — 
sc he .'ea’^BS his son to settle his own account with the Deity, 
err ent'ng himself witli an unusually long grace at table, 
'.r d a *i 3 quent voluntary prayer for grace before the family 
retires for the night. 

The good old schoolmaster, who could not be lawyer or 
politician, though with ambition and endowment enough for 
ooth, has been gathered to his fathers. He had reached 
he rips old age of eighty-one before he yielded to the sa- 
cre i slumber. He subsided from life, as the withered leaf 


m 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


*irops from tho tree in autumn, without an effort or strug 
gle. Ho died yvlille he slept, and no doubt in a sweet 
dream, and with the far-off sounds of angelic music in Ids 
ears, full of welcome and rejoicing. He was at peace with 
he world. His last days were cheered by affectionate 
ares and the most loving solicitude. All that he beheld 
and beard was grateful to his matured thoughts and his 
'nnocent desires. His pride was unselfish, like his hopes, 
it was all grounded in the prosperity of another ! 

And that other ? — 

William Calvert continued to prosper. He never mar- 
ried. He still lives, in a green and vigorous old age, in 
the midst of a noble estate, the fruit of his own well-applied 
industry and honorable energies. He concentrated all his 
talents upon his profession, and his profession made him 
prosperous in turn. His one experiment in politics satis- 
fied all his desires in that direction. For ever after, he 
steadily refused all connection with political life. He was 
wont to say that the sacrifice was quite too great for so 
small an object ; and that, while politics in a democracy 
were admirably calculated to intoxicate and stimulate vani- 
ty, they furnished very unwholesome and unsatisfactory food 
for any real, craving, honest ambition. And he was right. 
He still lives — lives, as we have said, a bachelor — with 
lofty frame, erect carriage, fair, round face, benevolent 
heart, and a calm, sedate mind, always equal to the occa- 
sion, and seeking after notliing more. His affections were 
true to his first and only love ; and sometimes, as if speak- 
ing to himself rather than those about him, he will mention 
the name of Margaret Cooper. This will be followed by a 
deep sigh ; and then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he 
will hurry out of the apartment, and seek refuge in his own. 

And thus he still lives, in waiting — and in hope! 

Let us drop the curtain. 


THE END. 


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o 



CONFESSION 


OP 


THE BLIND HEART 

A DOMESTIC STORY 

By W. GILMORE SIMMS, Esq. 

IIUTHOR OF “out RIV'KRs” — “ RT C H A RD hIjrDIs” — “ BORDER BEAGLES’ 
“ BKAUCHAMPE” “KATHARINE WALTOn” “ THE SCOUT,” ETC. 


Wagner But of the world — the heart, the mind of man 
How happy could we know I 
Faust. What can we know ? 

Who dares bestow the infant his true nnmet 
Ti'.e few who felt and knew, but blindly gave 
Their knowledge to the multitude — they fell I 
Incapable to keep their full hearts in, 

ITicy, from the first of immemorial time. 

Were crucified or burnt. 

Goethe’s Faust, MS. Veraion. 


NF.W AND REVISED EDITION 



Nibs gfirfe: 

A. C. ARMSTRONG & SON, 

714 BROADWAY. 


Kntered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, 

Bv J. S. KKDFIELD, 

tie Clerk’s Office of the District Coiirt of the United States, in and for the Southern 

District of New York. 


SAVAGK & MCCREA, STKREOTYPBH*, 
13 Chambers Street, N. Y. 


40 »/ 


INTRODUCTION. 


It is, no doubt, a departure from the general laws of Nature, 
when we exhibit, in a work of art, in fiction, the exercise of any 
one passion exclusively; when, as in the case of Miss Joanna 
Baillie, in her “ Plays of the Passions,” we endeavor to individ- 
ualize a single passion to the exclusion of all the rest, and 
seek to build our interest entirely upon the exercise of the one 
feature, or quality of mind or heart, which we have thus estab- 
lished in this morbid ascendency. Nature does not usually 
work after this fashion. The passions dwell in groups and fam 
ilies, and there is perpetual play and co-operation between 
them. One of them may, indeed, exercise a predominating 
power; but the others are still visibly working, as tributaries — 
certainly a portion of them — and their presence is to be de- 
tected in the general agency ; affording that sort of relief to 
the person in whose fortunes the chief interest lies, without 
which a passion resolves itself finally into madness. There is 
little question, indeed, that not only do most madnesses arise 
from such an absorbed condition of the mind, which thus subju- 
gates all tbe energies to a single faculty, and compels them in a 
single direction, and keeps them intcn.sely exercised and sorely 
straitened ; but that all intensity, which throws a single passion' 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


into extreme superiority, for any length of time, so as to leave 
the rest wholly in abeyance, will so impair the intellectual 
strength as to render of questionable sanity all the perform- 
ances of the party while in this condition. That this condition 
does and must exist occasionally, we know ; for we have mad- 
ness and monomania in the world ; but, as it is the policy of 
neither moralist nor dramatist to select a madman for his hero, 
so it is false practice in art, and a great mistake, so to individu- 
alize a passion until it acts like madness — unless, where we 
make the character wholly subordinate to the fiction, and use 
it merely as a part of the inferior agency in bringing about 
results which are requisite for the large conditions of the story ; 
and even this must be done very judiciously, and without ma- 
king a too free use of the morbid agency. 

I am not sure that I have not erred against my own rule 
in the tale which follows ; but I am sure that I have had no 
purpose to violate it. Indeed, the form of monomania which 
I have here sought to delineate, I have endeavored to relieve 
by shows of other passions — nay, by the free exercise of 
other passions, and strong ones too — which would, under 
other circumstances, in the case of an individual trained by a 
more indulgent fortune, have fully availed to neutralize the one 
moral plague-spot, which, let to grow, and stimulated in its 
growth by external pressure, became finally, in the case of my 
hero, big enough, not only to cover the whole heart, but to im- 
pair the vigorous working of an otherwise noble brain. Self- 
esteem is, here, a passion ; ambition, a passion ; love, a passion : 
there are nice sensibilities, an honorable spirit, great gentle- 
ness, warm sympathies, and many talents. But the self-esteem, 
in an ambitious nature, goaded by continual wrong, grows into 
one of the most jealous of all passions ; and, in the case of one 
equally endowed with a fine heart and noble faculties, it is apt 
to put on the most subtle as well as the most fiery form of jeal- 
ousy. The jealousy of self-esteem, by-the-way, is of far greater 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


intensity than that which springs from mortified affections alone ; 
and this is the source of the diseased development which I here 
delineate. — Enough, perhaps, on this head, particularly as my 
object, throughout the tale, has been to make the hero lay bare 
the secret of his own disease, and, step by step, to exhibit its 
successive symptoms. 

Portions of the following narrative were among the earliest 
prose-writings of the author. The materials are gathered from 
facts, in a domestic history, the sources of which he believes to 
be unquestionable. Some of the events occurred, indeed, un- 
der his own observation. Of this early manuscript he had 
almost lost all recollection, until he happened upon it while 
exploring the contents of a large mass of similar beginnings of 
his youth. The reperusal of the fragment possessed his mind 
so warmly with the subject, that he could not resist the desire 
to resume it. Attempting to arrange it for the press, he was 
led away by his own interest in the psychological history ; and 
the work grew beneath his hands to a size far exceeding his 
original purpose, which contemplated nothing more than the 
construction of a rapid magazine article. 

A work so growing, without design, may be strictly legiti- 
mate, as the natural progress of the author’s mind to the solu- 
tions of his problems, yet fail in every essential, as a work of 
interest for the reader, or even of art. The mere logical array 
of facts, distribution and arrangement of the proper relations of 
parties and events — all these, however well done, may yet con- 
stitute no more claim to art than may be urged in behalf of a 
well-put law argument. The defect in design will most proba- 
bly be a loss of warmth and color to the picture, to speak in 
the language of the studio. Such a process of gradual expan- 
sion, without heed to the design, is liable to many dangers and 
objections, in addition to the deficiency already mentioned ; not 
the least of which, in the popular estimation, will be the ab- 
sence of variety, and the lack of exciting action. To sit down, 


8 


INTRODUCTION. 


day by day, to the labors of the anatomist merely — to bare 
the nerves, and sinews, and tissues,, and limbs, which we should 
prefer to clothe and color — is apt to become a somewhat dreary, 
even when an exciting, performance; and this is the danger 
always of one who, in fiction, works under the surface^ rejecting 
those exhibitions of the moods externally which supply the per- 
formance with its incidents. We prefer the salient action to 
the contemplation of the silent agony; would rather behold 
the action than have it described to us; must see Richard 
wu’ithing upon his couch, even while we listen to his dream ; 
and are apt to feel it somewhat wearisome to trace the secret 
necessity of the soul, even though, in doing so, we are allowed 
to pierce its most hidden mysteries. We prefer to hear it cry 
aloud its agonies, rather than take upon ourselves the labor of 
seeking them where they lie concealed, and watching the secret- 
struggles by which they are subdued. 

To readers, therefore, who are simply in search of incident, 
and that sort of interest which appeals to the blood rather than 
the brain, it may be well, by way of caution, and to prevent 
unreasonable expectation, to say that this “ Confession of the 
Blind Heart” offers very little encouragement. It partakes of 
few of the features of that school of Dumas, and Reynolds, and 
Ainsworth, in which the heart is made to roar out its hopes or 
sufferings, under incessant provocation and stimuli. It has its 
“ disastrous chances ;” but with few of those “ moving accidents 
by flood and field” — those “hair-breadth ’scapes i’ the immi- 
nent deadly breach” — which so richly garnish in general the 
tales of these popular writers. 

Its interest is required to arise from other sources. It con- 
templates another class of readers. The trials and troubles of 
the hero are not only those of simple, domestic life, but they 
are of the sensibilities rather than the blood — diseased sensi- 
bilities, where the passions, exciting and erring, develop them- 
selves in faults, vices, and weaknesses, rather than in crimes ; 


INTR0DU€T19>\ 


9 


and where, even when crime occurs, it is motiveless as crime, 
not purposed as crime, but, under a blind judgment, as justice 
simply. The attempt is made to analyze the heart in some of 
its obliquities and perversities ; to follow its toils, pursue its 
phases, and to trace, if possible, the secret of its self-deceptions, 
its self-baffling inconsistencies, its seemingly wilful warfare with 
reason and the sober experience. This is the simple design of 
the narrative, which, with great unity of plan and purpose, 
lacks all the usual varieties of art in prose fiction. It belongs, 
somewhat, to the class of works which the genius of Godwin 
has made to triumph in “ Caleb Williams,” even over a per- 
verse system. 

The writer reviews his work, now that it is finished (and 
now again when he revises its pages for the last time), with 
many misgivings. He is not blind to the difficulty of describing 
the struggles of a blind heart — taking that one heart up, almost 
alone, and making it narrate its own dreary consciousness of 
wrong-doing, of wrong-enduring, and of equal suffering in both 
conditions. Perhaps there can be no performance more diffi- 
cult — none less likely to appeal to the merely popular reader 
— less likely to be successful, in common opinion, unless with 
a small and peculiarly-constituted circle. There is no relief to 
the picture — no background, or it is all background — gloomy 
even with its glare — an ominous shadow hanging like a cloud 
over the whole, and serving as the curtain which, half the time, 
conceals the sacrifice. Success, of a popular kind, is rarely 
possible in any work of fiction where events, which naturally 
speak for themselves, are mostly rejected from use ; where the 
whole history depends for development upon the silent progress 
of the thoughts, and sentiments, and emotions — the passions 
themselves working as under-currents of moods and feelings — 
moods which look, but speak not, and feelings that boil for ever 
in fiery fountains, but are never suffered to overflow ! A sin- 
gle soul is here selected from the rest, put in bonds, put to the 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


torture, and made to declare its dreary experience through its 
groans. It is to suffer, not to act. It has no foil, no assistants ; 
there is no chorus ; no other actors are suffered on the scene. 
Its cry is necessarily a monotone. Its own intensity must sup- 
ply the absence of exciting action. Can it make itself heard, 
felt — secure justice, compel sympathy — by this one cry of 
agony % Thai is the question. In degree with the intensity 
of its own agony, its own severe simplicity and truth, its own 
earnest feeling of sincerity, and the injustice of its suffering 
under the decree of an ingeniously perverse fate, will he the 
credence we accord to its appeal. It speaks, or not, to the 
purpose, as one giving evidence. Perhaps, like the frequent 
witness in other courts, it may speak some — nay, much — yet 
not the whole truth. The writer, however, has striven that 
such should not be the case. He has conducted the cross- 
examination with a searching scrutiny ; and, if any matters of 
evidence are left unrevealed, the fault is rather in the lawyer 
than the witness. The courteous reader will he pleased to per- 
ceive this fault in neither. In neither — we answer for both — 
is it wilful. 


TVoodiO-NDS, S. C., March, 1856. 


W. G. 8. 


CONFESSION, 

OR 

THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Who dares bestow the infant his true name ? 

The few who felt and knew, but blindly gave 
Their knowledge to the multitude — they fell 
Incapable to keep their full hearts in, 

They, from the first of immemorial time, 

^ Were crucified or burnt.” — Goethe’s Faust. 

Thk pains and penalties of folly are not necessarily death. 
They were in old times, perhaps, according to the text, and he 
ho kept not to himself the secrets of his silly heart was surely 
crucified or burnt. Though lacking in penalties extreme like 
these, the present is not without its own. All times, indeed, 
have their penalties for folly, much more certainly than for 
crime ; and this fact furnishes one of the most human arguments 
in favor of the doctrine of rewards and punishments in the fu- 
ture state. But these penalties are not always mortifications 
and trials of the fiesh. There are punishments of the soul ; the 
spirit; the sensibilities ; the intellect — which are most usually 
the consequences of one’s own folly. There is a perversity of 
mood which is the worst of all such penalties. There are tor- 
tures which the foolish heart equally inflicts and endures. The 
passions riot on their own nature ; and, feeding as they do upon 


12 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


that bosom from which they spring, and in which they flourish, 
may, not inaptly, be likened to that unnatural brood which 
gnaws into the heart of the mother-bird, and sustains its exist- 
ence at the expense of hers. Meetly governed from the be- 
ginning, they are dutiful agents that bless themselves in their 
own obedience ; but, pampered to excess, they are tyrants that 
never do justice, until at last, when they fitly conclude the work 
of destruction by their own. 

The narrative which follows is intended to illustrate these 
opinions. It is the story of a blind heart — nay, of blind hearts 
— blind through their own perversity — blind to their own in- 
terests — their own joys, hopes, and proper sources of delight. 
In narrating my own fortunes, I depict theirs; and the old 
leaven of wilful ness, which belongs to our nature, has, in greater 
or less degree, a place in every human bosom. 

I was the only one surviving of several sons. My parents 
died while I was yet an infant. I never knew them. I was 
left to the doubtful charge of relatives, who might as well have 
been strangers ; and, from their treatment, I learned to doubt 
and to distrust among the first fatal lessons of my youth. I felt 
myself unloved — nay, as I fancied, disliked and despised. I 
was not merely an orphan. I was poor, and was felt as burden- 
some by those connections whom a dread of public opinion, 
rather than a sense of duty and affection, persuaded to take me 
to their homes. Here, then, when little more than three years 
old, I found myself — a lonely brat, whom servants might flout 
at pleasure, and Avhom superiors only regarded with a frown. 
I was just old enough to remember that I had once experienced 
very different treatment. I had felt the caresses of a fond 
mother — I had heard the cheering accents of a generous and a 
gentle father. The one had soothed my griefs and encouraged 
my hopes — the other had stimulated my energies and prompted 
my desires. Let no one fancy that, because I was a child, these 
lessons were premature. All education, to be valuable, must 
begin with the child’s first efforts at discrimination. Suddenly, 
both of these fond parents disappeared, and I was just young 
enough to wonder why. 

The change in my fortunes first touched my sensibilities, 
which it finally excited until they became diseased. Neglected. 


THE ORPHAN. 


13 


if’ not scomed, I habitually looked to encounter nothing but 
neglect or scorn. The sure result of this condition of mind was 
a look and feeling, on my par , of habitual defiance. I grew 
up with the mood of one who goes forth with a moral certainty 
that he must meet and provide against an enemy. But I am 
now premature. 

The uncle and aunt with whom I found shelter were what is 
called in ordinary parlance, very good people. They attended 
the most popular church with most popular punctuality. They 
prayed with unction — subscribed to all the charities which had 
publicity and a fashionable list to recommend them — helped 
to send missionaries to Calcutta, Bombay, Owyhee, and other 
outlandish regions — paid their debts when they became due 
with commendable readiness — and were, in all out-of-door re- 
spects, the very sort of people who might congratulate them- 
selves, and thank God that they were very far superior to their 
neighbors. My uncle had morning prayers at home, and my 
aunt thumbed Hannah More in the evening ; though it must be 
admitted that the former could not always forbear, coming from 
church on the sabbath, to inquire into the last news of the 
Liverpool cotton market, and my aunt never failed, when they 
reached home, on the same blessed day, to make the house 
ring with another sort of eloquence than that to which she had 
listened with such sanctimonious devotion from the lips of the 
preacher. There were some other little offsets against the per- 
fectly evangelical character of their religion. One of these — 
the first that attracted my infant consideration — was naturally 
one which more directly concerned myself. • I soon discovered 
that, while I was sent to an ordinary charity school of the 
country, in threadbare breeches, made of the meanest material 
— their own son — a gentle and good, but puny boy, whom their 
indulgence injured, and, perhaps, finally destroyed was de- 
spatched to a fashionable institution which taught all sorts of 
ologies — dressed in such choice broadcloth and costly habili- 
ments, as to make him an object of envy and even odium among 
all his less fortunate school-fellows. 

Poor little Edgar ! His own good heart and correct natural 
understanding showed him the equal folly of that treatment to 
wliich he was subjected, and the injustice and unkindness which 


11 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


distinguished mine. He strove to make amends, so far as I was 
concerned, for the error of his parents. He was my playmate 
whenever he was permitted, but even this pennission was qual- 
ified by some remark, some direction or counsel, from one or 
other of his parents, which was intended to let him know, and 
make me feel, that there was a monstrous difference between us. 

The servants discovered this difference as quickly as did the 
objects of it ; and though we were precisely of one age, and I 
was rather the largest of the two, yet, in addressing us, they 
paid him the deference which should only be shown to superior 
age, and treated me with the contumely only due to inferior 
merit. It was “Master Edgar,” when he was spoken to — and 
“ you,” when I was the object of attention. 

I do not speak of these things as of substantial evils affecting 
my condition. Perhaps, in one or more respects, they were 
benefits. They taught me humility in the first place, and made 
that humility independence, by showing me that the lesson was 
bestowed in wantonness, and not with the purpose of improve- 
ment. And, in proportion as my physical nature suffered their 
neglect, it acquired strength by the very roughening to which 
that neglect exposed it. In this I possessed a vast advantage 
over my little companion. His frame, naturally feeble, sunk 
under the oppressive tenderness to which the constant care of 
a vain father, a doting mother, and sycophantic friends and ser- 
vants, subjected it. The attrition of boy with boy, in the half-man- 
ly sports of schoolboy life — its very strifes and scuffles — would 
have brought his blood into adequate circulation, and hardened 
his bones, and given elasticity to his sinews. But from all these 
influences, he was carefully preserved and protected. He was 
not allowed to run, for fear of being too much heated. He could 
not jump, lest he might break a blood-vessel. In the ball play, 
he might get an eye knocked out ; and even tops and marbles 
were forbidden, lest he should soil his hands and wear out the 
knees of his green breeches. If he indulged in these sports it 
was only by stealth, and at the fearful cost of a falsehood on 
every such occasion. When will parents learn that entirely to 
crush and keep down the proper nature of the young, is to pro- 
duce inevitable perversity, and stimulate the boyish ingcmuity 
to crime ? 


THE ORPHAN. 


15 


With me the ease was very different. If cuffing and kicking 
could have killed, I should have died many sudden and severe 
deaths in the rough school to which I was sent. If eyes were 
likely to be lost in the campus, corded balls of India-rubber, or 
still harder ones of wood, impelled by shinny (goff) sticks, would 
have obliterated all of mine though they had been numerous as 
those of Argus. My limbs and eyes escaped all injury ; my 
frame grew tall and vigorous in consequence of neglect, even 
as the forest-tree, left to the conflict of all the winds of heaven ; 
while my poor little friend, Edgar, grew daily more and more 
diminutive, just as some plant, which nursing and tendance 
within doors deprive of the wholesome sunshine and generous 
breezes of the sky. The paleness of his cheek increased, the 
languor of his frame, the meagerness of his form, the inability 
of his nature ! He was pining rapidly away, in spite of that 
excessive care, which, perhaps, had been in the first instance, 
the unhappy source of all his feebleness. 

He died — and I became an object of greater dislike than 
ever to his parents. They could not but contrast my strength 
with his feebleness — my improvement with his decline — and 
when they remembered how little had been their regard for me, 
and how much for him — without ascribing the difference of 
result to the true cause — they repined at the ways of Provi- 
dence, and threw upon me the reproach of it. They gave me 
less heed and fewer smiles than ever. If I improved at school, 
it was well, perhaps ; but they never inquired, and I could not 
help fancying that it was with a positive expression of vexation, 
that my aunt heard, on one occasion, from my teacher, in the 
presence of some guests, that I was likely to be an honor to 
the family. 

“An honor to the family, indeed !” This was the clear ex- 
pression in that Christian lady’s eyes, as I saw them sink im- 
mediately after in a scornful examination of my rugged frame 
and coarse garments. 

The family had its own sources of honor, was the calm opin- 
ion of both my patrons, as they turned their eyes upon their 
only remaining child — a little girl about five years old, who 
was playing around them on the carpet. This opinion was also 
mine, even then : and my eyes followed theirs in the same 


It) 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


direction. Julia Clifford was one of the sweetest little fairies 
in the world. Tender-hearted, and just, and generous, like the 
dear little brother, whom she had only known to lose, she was 
yet as playful as a kitten. I was twice her age — just ten — 
at this period ; and a sort of instinct led me to adopt the little 
creature, in place of poor Edgar, in the friendship of my boyish 
heart. I drew her in her little wagon — carried her over the 
brooklet — constructed her tiny playthings — and in considera-. 
tion of my usefulness, in most generally keeping her in the best 
of humors, her mother was not unwilling that I should be her 
frequent playmate. Nay, at such times she could spare a gentle 
word even to me, as one throws a hone to the dog, who has 
jumped a pole, or plunged into the water, or worried some other 
dog, for his amusement. At no other period did my worthy 
aunt vouchsafe me such unlooked-for consideration. 

But Julia Clifford was not my only friend. I had made another 
shortly before the death of Edgar; though, passingly it may be 
said, friendship-making was no easy business with a nature such 
as mine had now become. The inevitable result of such treat- 
ment as that to which my early years had been subjected, was 
fully realized. I was suspicious to the last degree of all new 
faces — jealous of the regards of the old; devoting myself where 
my affections were set and requiring devotion — rigid, exclusive 
devotion — from their object in return. There was a terrible 
earnestness in all my moods which made my very love a thing 
to be feared. I was no trifler — I could not suffer to be trifled 
with — and the ordinary friendships of man or boy can not long 
endure the exactions of such a disposition. The penalties are 
usually thought to be — and are — infinitely beyond the rewards 
and benefits. 

My intimacies with William Edgerton were first fbrmed under 
circumstances which, of all others, are most likely to establish 
them on a firm basis in our days of boyhood. He came to my 
rescue one evening, when, returning from school, I was beset by 
three other boys, who had resolved on drubbing me. My 
haughty deportment had vexed their self-esteem, and, as the 
same cause had left me with few sympathies, it was taken for 
granted that the unfairness of their assault would provoke no 
censure. They were mistaken. In the moment of my greatest 


THE ORPHAN. 


17 


difficulty, William Edgei-ton dashed in among them. My exigen- 
cy rendered his assistance a very singular benefit. My nose was 
already broken — one of my eyes sealed up for a week’s holy day ; 
and I was suffering from small annoyances, of hip, heart, leg, and 
thigh, occasioned by the repeated cuffs, and the reckless kicks, 
which I was momently receiving from three points of the compass. 
It is true that my enemies had their hurts to complain of also ; but 
the odds were too greatly against me for any conduct or strength 
of mine to neutralize or overcome ; and it was only by Edgerton’s 
interposition that I was saved from utter defeat and much worse 
usage. The beating I had already suffered. I was sore from 
head to foot for a week after ; and my only consolation was 
that my enemies left the ground in a condition, if anything, 
something worse than my own. 

But I had gained a friend, and that was a sweet recompense, 
sweeter to me, by far, than it is fcrund or felt by schoolboys 
usually. None could know or comprehend the force of my 
attachment — my dependence upon the attachment of which I felt 
assured ! — none hut those who, with an earnest, impetuous nature 
like my own — doomed to denial from the first, and treated with 
injustice and unkindness — has felt the pang of a worse privation 
from the beginning ; — the privation of that sustenance, Avhich is 
the “ very be all and end all” of its desire and its life — and the 
denial of which chills and repels its fervor — throws it back in 
despondency upon itself — fills it with suspicion, and racks it 
with a never-ceasing conflict between its apprehension and its 
hopes. 

Edgerton supplied a vacuum which my bosom had long felt. 
He was, however, very unlike, in most respects, to myself. 
He was rather phlegmatic than ardent — slow in his fancies, and 
shy in his associations from very fastidiousness. He was too 
much governed by nice tastes, to be an active or performing 
youth ; and too much restrained by them also, to he a popular 
one. This, perhaps, was the secret influence which brought us 
together. A mutual sense of isolation — no matter from what 
cause — awakened the sympathies between us. Our ties were 
formed, on my part, simply because 1 was assured that I should 
have no rival ; and on his, possibly, because he perceived in my 
haughty reserve of character, a sufficient security that his fas-* 


18 


CONFESSION, OR IHE BLIND HEART. 


tidious sensibilities would not be likely to suffer outrage at my 
hands. In every other respect our moods and tempers were 
utterly unlike. I thought him dull, very frequently, when he 
was only balancing between jealous and sensitive tastes ; — and 
ignorant of the actual, when, in fact, his ignorance simply arose 
from the decided preference which he gave to the foreign and 
abstract. He was contemplative — an idealist ; I was impetuous 
and devoted to the real and living world around me, in which I 
was disposed to mingle with an eagerness which might have been 
fatal ; but for that restraint to which my own distrust of all things 
and persons habitually subjected me. 


BOY PASSIONS. 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

BOY PASSIONS — A PROFESSION CHOSEN. 

Between William Edgei-ton and Julia Clifford my young 
life and best affections were divided, entirely, if not equally. I 
lived for no other — I cared to seek, to know, no other — and 
yet I often shrunk from both. Even at that boyish period, while 
the heavier cares and the more painful vexations of life were 
wanting to our annoyance, I had those of that gnawing nature 
which seemed to be born of the tree whose evil growth “ brought 
death into the world and all our wo.” The pang of a nameless 
jealousy — a sleepless distrust — rose unbidden to my heart at 
seasons, when, in truth, there was no obvious cause. When 
Julia was most gentle — when William was most generous — 
even then, I had learned to repulse them with an indifference 
which I did not feel — a rudeness which brought to my heart a 
pain even greater than that which my wantonness inflicted upon 
theirs. I knew, even then, that I was perverse, unjust; and 
that there was a littleness in the vexatious mood in which I 
indulged, that was unjust to my owm feelings, and unbecoming 
in a manly nature. But even though I felt all this, as thoroughly 
as I could ever feel it under any situation, I still could not suc- 
ceed in overcoming that insane will which drove me to its indul- 
gence. 

Vainly have I striven to account for the blindness of heart — 
for such it is, in all such cases — which possessed me. W as there 
anything in my secret nature, born at my birth and growing 
with my growth — which impelled me to this wilfulness. I can 
scarcely believe so ; but, after serious reflection, am compelled 
to think that it was the strict result of moods growing out of the 
particular treatment to which I had been subjected. It does 
not seem unnatural that an ardent temper of mind, willing to 


20 


CONFESSION, OR THE BUND HEART. 


confide, looking to love and affection for the only aliment Avhicli 
it most and chiefly desires, and repelled in this search, frowned 
on by its superiors as if it were something base, will, in time, 
grow to be habitually wilful, even as the treatment which has 
schooled it. Had I been governed and guided by justice, I am 
sure that I should never have been unjust. 

My waywardness in childliood did not often amount to rudeness, 
and never, I may safely say, where Julia was concerned. In 
her case, it was simply the exercise of a sullenness that repelled 
her approaches, even as its own approaches had been repelled 
by others. At such periods I went apart, communing sternly 
with myself, refusing the sympathy that I most yearned after, 
and resolving not to be comforted. Let me do the dear child the 
justice to say that the only effect which this conduct had upon 
her, was to increase her anxieties to soothe the repulsive spirit 
which should have offended her. Perhaps, to provoke this 
anxiety in one it loves, is the chief desire of such a spirit. It 
loves to behold the persevering devotion, which it yet perversely 
toils to discourage. It smiles within, with a bitter triumph, as 
it contemplates its own power, to impart the same sorrow which 
a similar perversity has already made it feel. 

But, without seeking further to analyze and account for such 
a spirit, it is quite sufficient if I have described it. Perhaps, 
there are other hearts equally fro^vard and wayward Avith my 
OAvn. I know not if my story will amend — perhaps it may 
not even instruct or inform them — I feel that no story, however 
truthful, could have disarmed the humor of that particular mood 
of mind which shows itself in the blindness of the heart under 
which it was my lot to labor. I did not want knoAvlodge of my 
own perversity. I knew — I felt it — as clearly as if I had seen 
it written in characters of light, on the walls of my chamber. 
But, until it had exhausted itself and passed away by its own 
processes, no effort of mine could have overcome or banished it. 
I stalked apart, under its influence, a gloomy savage — scornful 
and sad — stern, yet suffering — denying myself equally, in the 
perverse and wanton denial to which I condemned all others. 

Perhaps something of this temper is derived from tlie yearn- 
ings of the mental nature. It may belong somewhat to the 
natural direction of a mind having a decided tendency to imagi* 


BOY PASSIONS. 


21 


native pursuits. There is a dim, vague, indefinite struggle, for 
ever going on in the nature of such a person, after an existence 
and relations very foreign to the world in which it lives ; and 
equally far from, and hostile to that condition in which it thrives. 
The vague discontent of such a mind is one of the causes of its 
activity ; and how far it may be stimulated into diseased inten- 
sity by injudicious treatment, is a question of large importance 
for the consideration of philosophers. The imaginative nature 
is one singularly sensitive in its conditions ; quick, jealous, 
watchful, earnest, stirring, and perpetually breaking down the 
ordinary barriers of the actual, in its struggles to ascertain the 
extent of the possible. The tyranny which drives it from the 
ordinary resources and enjoyments of the young, by thro'ving 
it more completely on its own, impels into desperate activity 
that daring of the imaginative mood, which, at no time, is want- 
ing in courage and audacity. My mind was one singularly 
imaginative in its structure ; and my ardent temperament con- 
tributed largely to its activity. Solitude, into which I was 
forced by the repulsive and unkind treatment of my relatives, 
was also favorable to the exercise of this influence ; and my 
heart may be said to have taken, in turn, every color and aspect 
which informed my eyes. It was a blind heart for this very 
reason, in respect to all those things for which it should have 
had a color of its own. Books and the woods — the voice of 
waters and of song — the dim mysteries of poetry, and the whis- 
pers of lonely forest-walks, which beguiled me into myself, and 
more remotely from my fellows, were all, so far as my social 
relations were conceraed, evil influences ! Influences which 
were only in part overcome by the communion of such gentle 
beings as William Edgerton and Julia Clifford. 

With these friends, and these only, I grew up. As my years 
advanced, my intimacy with the former increased, and with the 
latter diminished. But this diminution of intimacy did not lessen 
the kindness of her feelings, or the ordinary devotedness of 
mine. She was still — when the perversity of heart made me 
not blind — the sweet creatm'e to whom the task of ministering 
was a pleasure infinitely beyond any other which I knew. But, 
as she grew up to girlhood, other prospects opened upon her 
eyes, and other purposes upon those of her parents. At twelve 


22 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


she was carried by maternal vanity into company — sent to 
the dancing-school — provided with teachers in music and paint- 
ing, and made to understand — so far as the actions, looks, and 
words of all around could teach — that she was the cynosure of 
all eyes, to whom the whole world was bound in deference. 

Fortunately, in the case of Julia, the usual effects of mater- 
nal folly and indiscretion did not ensue. Nature interposed to 
protect her, and saved her in spite of them all. She was still 
the meek, modest child, solicitous of the happiness of all around 
her — unobtrusive, unassuming — kind to her inferiors, respect- 
ful to superiors, and courteous to, and considerate of all other 
persons. Her advancing years, which rendered these new ac- 
quisitions and accomplishments desirable, if not necessary, at 
the same time prompted her foolish mother to another step 
which betrayed the humiliating regard which she entertained 
for me. When I was seventeen, Julia was twelve, and when 
neither she nor myself had a solitary thought of love, the over- 
considerate mother began to think, on this subject, for us both. 
The result of her cogitations determined her that it was no 
longer fitting that Julia should be my companion. Our rambles 
in the woods together were forbidden ; and Julia was gravely 
informed that I was a poor youth, though her cousin — an orphan 
whom her father’s charity supported, and whom the public 
charity schooled. The poor child artlessly told me all this, in 
a vain effort to procure from me an explanation of the mystery 
(which her mother had either failed or neglected to explain) by 
which such circumstances were made to account for the new 
commands which had been given her. Well might she, in her 
simplicity of heart, wonder why it was, that because I was poor, 
she should be familiar with me no longer. 

The circumstance opened my eyes to the fact that Julia was 
a tall girl, growing fast, already in her teens, and likely, under 
the rapidly-maturing influence of our summer sun, to be soon a 
woman. But just then — just when she first tasked me to solve 
the mystery of her mother’s strange requisitions, I did not think 
of this. I was too much filled with indignation — the mortified 
self-esteem was too actively working in my bosom to suffer me 
to think of anything but the indignity with which I was treated. 
A brief portion of the dialogue between the child and my- 


BOY PASSIONS. 23 

self, will give some glimpses of the blind heart by which 
I was afflicted. 

“Oh, you do not understand it, Julia. You do not know, 
then, that you are the daughter of a rich merchant — the only 
daughter — that you have servants to wait on you, and a car- 
riage at command — that you can wear fine silks, and have all 
things that money can buy, and a rich man’s daughter desire. 
You don’t know these things, Julia, eh?’’ 

“ Yes, Edward, I hear you say so now, and I hear mamma 
often say the same things ; but still I don’t see — ’’ 

“ You don’t see why that should make a difference between 
yourself and your poor cousin, eh? Well, but it does; and 
though you don’t see it now, yet it will not be very long before 
you will see, and understand it, and act upon it, too, as promptly 
as the wisest among them. Don’t you know that I am the 
object of your father’s charity — that his bounty feeds me — and 
that it would not be seemly that the world should behold me 
on a familiar footing of equality or intimacy with the daughter 
of my benefactor — my patron — without whom I should prob 
ably starve, or be a common beggar upon the highway ?” 

“ But father would not suffer that, Edward.’’ 

“ Oh, no ! no ! — he would not suffer it, Julia, simply because 
his own pride and name would feel the shame and disgrace of 
such a thing. But though he would keep me from beggary and 
the highway, Julia, neither he nor your, mother would spend a 
sixpence or make an effort to save my feelings from pain and 
misery. They protect me from the scorn of others, but they use 
me for their own.’’ 

The girl hung her head in silence. 

“And you, too,” I added — “the time will come when you, 
too, Julia, will shrink as promptly as themselves from being 
seen with your poor relation. You — ” 

“No! no! Edward — how can you think of such a thing?” 
she replied with girlish chiding. 

“ Think it ! — I know it ! The time will soon be here. But 
— obey your mother, Julia. Go! leave me now. Begin at 
once the lesson which, before many days, you will find it very 
easy to learn.” 

This was all very manly, so I fancied at the time ; and then 


24 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


blind with the perverse heart which boiled within me, I felt not 
the wantonness of my mood, and heeded not the bitter pain 
which T occasioned to her gentle bosom. Her little hand 
gi’asped mine, her warm tears fell upon it ; but, I flung away 
from her grasp, and left her to those childish meditations which 
I had made sufficiently mournful. 

Subsequent reflection, while it showed me the brutality of 
my conduct to Julia, opened my eyes to the true meaning of 
her mother’s interdiction ; and increased the pang of those bit- 
ter feelings, which my conscious dependence had awakened in 
my breast. It was necessary that this dependence should be 
lessened ; that, as I was now approaching manhood, I should 
cast about for the future, and adopt wisely and at once the 
means of my support hereafter. It was necessary that I should 
begin the business of life. On this head I had already reflected 
somewhat, and my thoughts had taken their direction from more 
than one conference which I had had with William Edgerton. 
His father was an eminent lawyer, and the law had been adopted 
for his profession also, I determined to make it mine ; and to 
speak on this subject to iry uncle. This I did. I chose an 
afternoon, the very week in which my conversation had taken 
place with Julia, and, while the dinner things were undergoing 
removal, with some formality requested a private interview 
with him. He looked round at me with a raised brow of in- 
quiry — nodded his head — and shortly after rose from the table. 
My aunt stared with an air of supercilious wonder ; while poor 
Julia, timid and trembling, barely ventured to give me a single 
look, which said — and that was enough for me — “I wish I 
dared say more.” 

My conference with my uncle was not of long duration. I 
told him it was my purpose — my desire — to begin as soon as 
possible to do something for myself. His answer signified that 
such was his opinion also. So far we were agreed ; but when I 
told him that it was my wish to study the law, he answered 
'vith sufficient, and as I thought, scornful abruptness : — 

*' The law, indeed ! What puts the law into your head ? 
What preparations have you made to study the law ? You 
know nothing of languages which every lawyer should know — 
Latin — 


A PROFESSION CHOSEN. 


25 


I interrupted him to say that I had some slight knowledge 
of Latin — sufficient, I fancied, for all legal purposes. 

“ Ah ! indeed ! where did you get it 1 ” 

“ A friend lent me a grammar and dictionary, and I studied 
myself.” 

“ Oh, you are ambitious ; hut you deceive yourself. You were 
never made for a lawyer. Besides, how are you to live while 
prosecuting your studies ? No, no ! I have b^en thinking of some- 
thing for you, Edward — and, just now, it happens fortunately 
that old Squire F armer, the bricklayer, wants some apprentices — ” 

I could scarcely listen thus far. 

“ I thank you, sir, hut I have no disposition to he a brick- 
layer.” 

“ You must do something for yourself. You can not expect to 
eat the bread of idleness. I have done, and will do for you 
what I can — whatever is necessary; — hut I have my own 
family to provide for. I can not rob my own child ” 

“Nor do I expect it, Mr. Clifford,” I replied hastily, and with 
some indignation. “ It is my wish, sir, to draw as little as pos- 
sible from your income and resources. I would not rob Julia 
Clifford of a single dollar. Nay, sir, I trust before many years 
to be able to refund you every copper which has been spent 
upon me from the moment I entered your household.” 

He said hastily : — 

“ I wish nothing of that, Edward ; — but the law is a study of 
years, and is expensive and unpromising in every respect. Your 
clothes already call for a considerable sum, and such a proh s- 
sion requires, more than almost any other, that a student sLould 
be well dressed.” 

“ I promise you, sir, that my dress shall be such as shall not 
trespass upon your income. I shall be governed by as much 
economy ” 

He inteiTupted me to say, that 

“ His duty required that his brother’s son should be dressed 
as well as his associates.” 

I replied, with tolerable composure : — 

“ I do not think, sir, that bricklaying will admit of very gen- 
teel clothing, nor do I think that the vocation will suit me. I 

have flattered myself, sir, that my talents ” 

2 


26 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ Oh, you have talents, then, have you ? Well, it is fortunate 
that the discovery has been made in season.” 

I bore with this, though my cheek was burning, and said — 
with an effort to preserve my voice and temper, in which, though 
the difficulty was great, I was tolerably successful — 

“ You have misunderstood me in some things, Mr. Clifford ; 
and I will try now to explain myself clearly in others. Having 
resolved, sir, that the law shall be my profession ” 

“ Ha ! resolved, say you V' 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Well, go on — go on!” 

“ Having resolved to pursue the study of law, and seeing that 
I am burdensome and expensive to you — believing, too, that 
I can relieve you of the burden — I have simply requested per- 
mission of you to make the attempt.” 

“ Why, how do you propose to do so ? — how can you support 
yourself — that is relieve me of the burden of your expenses — 
and study the law at the same time ?” 

“ Such things have been done, sir ; and can be done again. I 
flatter myself I can do it. Industry will enable me to do so. I 
propose to apply for a clerkship in a mercantile establishment 
which I know stands in need of assistance, and while there will 
pursue my studies in such intervals of leisure as the business Will 
afford me.” 

“ You seem to have the matter ready cut and dry. Why do 
you come to me, then ? Remember, I can make no advances.” 

“ I need none, sir. My simple object with you, sir, was to 
declare my intention, and to request that I may be permitted 
to refer to you the merchants to whom I mean to apply, for a 
knowledge of my character and attainments.” 

“ Oh, certainly, you may — for the character ; — but as to the 
attainments” — with a sneering smile — “of them I can say 
nothing, and, perhaps, the less said the better. I’ve no doubt 
you’ll do well enough with the merchants. It does not need 
much genius or attainment for such situations. But, if you’ll 
take my counsel, you’ll go to the bricklayer. We want brick- 
layers sadly. To be a tolerable lawyer, parts are necessary ; 
and God knows the country is over-stocked with hosts of 
lawyers already, whose only parts lie in their impudence. 


A PROFESSION CHOSEN. 27 

Better think a little while longer. Speak to old Farmer 
yourself.” 

I smiled bitterly — thanked him for his counsel, which was 
only a studied form of insult, and turned away from him without 
further speech, and with a proud swelling of indignation at my 
heart. Thus our conference ended. A week after, I was en- 
sconced behind the counter of a wholesale dealer, and my hands 
at night were already busy in turning over the heavy folios of 
diitty and Blackstone. 


28 


CONFESSION, OR THE RLiiJH HEART. 


CHAPTER III. 

ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 

Behold me, then, merchandising by day, and conning by night 
the intricate mysteries of law. Books for the latter purpose were 
furnished by my old friend, William Edgerton, from his father’s 
library. He himself was a student, beginning about the same 
time with myself ; though with the superior piivilege of devoting 
himself exclusively to this study. But if he had more time, I 
was more indefatigable. My pnde was roused, and emulation 
soon enabled me to supply the want of leisure. My nights were 
surrendered, almost wholly, to my new pursuit. I toiled with 
all the earnestness which distinguished my temperament, stimu- 
lated to a yet higher degree by those feelings of pride and pique, 
which were resolved to convince my skeptical uncle that I was 
not entirely without those talents, the assertion of which had so 
promptly provoked his sneer. Besides, I had already learned 
that no such scheme as mine could be successfully prosecuted, 
unless by a stern resolution ; and this implied the constant pres- 
ence of a close, undeviating method in my studies. I tasked 
myself accordingly to read — understandingly, if possible — so 
many pages every night, making my notes, queries, doubts, &c., 
en passant. In order to do this, I prescribed to myself a rule, 
to pass directly from the toils of the day and the store to 
my chamber, suffering no stoppage by the way, and studiously 
denying myself the dangerous fascinations of that society which 
was everywhere at command, in the persons of young men about 
my own age and condition. The intensity of my character, and 
the suspiciousness which it induced, helped me in this determi- 
nation. Perhaps, there is no greater danger to a young man’s 
habits of study and business, than a chat at the street corner, 
with a merry and thoughtless group. A single half hour con- 


ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 


29 


Slimed in this manner, is almost always fatal to the remaining 
hours of the day. It breaks into the circle, and impairs the 
method without which the passage of the sun becomes a very 
weary and always an unprofitable progress. If you would be a 
student or anything, you must plunge headlong into it at the be- 
ginning — bury yourself in your business, and work your way 
out of your toils, by sheer, dogged industry. 

My labors were so far successful that I could prosecute my 
studies with independence. I had left the dwelling of my uncle 
the moment I took employment in the mercantile house. My 
salary, though small, was ample ; with my habits, it was par- 
ticularly so. I had few of those vices in which young men are 
apt to indulge, and which, when they become habits, cease un- 
happily to be regarded as vices. I used tobacco in no shape, 
and no ardent spirits. I needed no stimulants, and, by the way, 
true industry never does. It is only indolence that needs drink ; 
and indolence does need it ; and the sooner drunkenness kills 
indolence by the use of drink, the better for society. The only 
objection to liquors as an agent for ridding the community of a 
nuisance, is, that it is rather too slow, and too offensive in its 
detailed operations ; arsenic would be far less offensive, more 
summary, and is far more certain. You would seek vainly to 
cure drunkenness, unless you first cure the idleness which is its 
root and strength, and, while they last, its permanent support. 
But my object is not homily. 

If I was free from vices such as these, however, I had vices 
of my own, which were only less odious as they were less 
obvious. That vexing, self-tormenting spirit of which I have 
spoken as the evil genius that dogged my footsteps — that moral 
perverseness which I have described as the “blind heart” — 
still afflicted me, though in a far less degree now than when I 
was the inmate of my uncle’s dwelling, and exposed to all the 
caprices of himself, his wife and servants. I kept on good terms 
with my employers, for the very natural reason that they saw 
me attend to niy business and theirs, with a hearty cheerfulness 
that went to work promptly in whatever was to be done, and 
executed its tasks with steady fortitude, neatness, and rapidity. 
But, even with them, I had my sulks — my humors — my stub- 
born fits of sullenness, that seemed anxious to provoke opposi- 


80 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

tion, and awaken wrath. These, however, tliey considerately 
fbrgave in consideration of my real usefulness : and as they per- 
ceived that whatever might have been the unpleasantness occa- 
sioned by these specimens of spleen, they were never suffered 
to interfere with or retard the operations of business. “ It^s an 
ugly way he’s got,” was, probably, the utmost extent of what 
either of the partners said, and of what is commonly said on 
such occasions by most persons, who do not care to trouble 
themselves with a too close inquiry. 

Well, at twenty-one, William Edgerton and myself were ad- 
mitted to the practice of the law, and that too with considerable 
credit to ourselves. I had long since been carried by my friend 
into his family circle ; and Mr. Edgerton, his father, had been 
pleased to distinguish me with sundry attentions, which were 
only grateful to me in consequence of the unusual deference 
with which his manner evinced his regard. His gentle inquiries 
and persuasive suggestions beguiled me into more freedom of 
speech than I had ever before been accustomed to ; and his 
judicious management of my troubled spirit, for a time, stifled 
its contradictions, and suppressed its habitual tendencies. But 
it was with some jealousy, and an erectness of manner which 
was surely ungracious, though, perhaps, not oftensive, that I 
endured and replied to his inquiries into my personal condition, 
my resources, and the nature of that dependence which I bore 
to the family of my uncle. When he learned — which he did 
not from me — in what manner I had pursued my studies' — after 
what toils of the day, and at what late hours of the night — 
when he found from a close private examination, which he had 
given me, before my admission, that my knowledge of the law 
was quite as good as the greater number of those who apply 
for admission — he was pleased to express his astonishment at 
my perseverance, and delight at my success. When, too, in 
addition to this, he discovered, upon a minute inquiry from my 
employers and others, that I was abstemious, and indulged in 
no excesses of any kind, his interest in me increased, as I 
thought, who had been accustomed to nothing of the sJrt, be- 
yond all reasonable measure — and I soon had occasion to per- 
ceive that it was no idle curiosity that prompted his considera- 
tion and inquiry. 


ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 


31 


Without my knowledge, he paid a visit to my uncle. This 
gentleman, I may be permitted here to say, had been quite as 
much surprised as anybody else, at my determined prosecution 
of my studies in spite of the difficulties by Avhich I was sur- 
rounded. That I was pursuing them, while in the mercantile 
establishment to which I had gone, he did not believe ; and 
very frequently when I was at his house — for I visited the 
family, and sometimes, though unfrequently, dined with them 
on a sabbath — he jeered me on my progress — the “ wonderful 
progress,” as he was pleased to term it — which he felt sure I 
was making with my Coke and Blackstone, while baling blan- 
kets, or bundling up plains and kerseys. This I bore patiently, 
sustained as I was by the proud, indomitable spirit within me, 
which assured me of the ultimate triumph which I felt positive 
would ensue. I enjoyed his surprise — a surprise that looked 
something like consternation — when the very day of my ad- 
mission to the bar, and after that event, I encountered him in 
the street, and in answer to his usual sarcastic inquiry : — 

“Well, Edward, how does the law come on? How is Sir 
William Blackstone, Sir Edward Coke, and the rest of the white 
heads ?” 

I simply put the parchment into his hands which declared 
my formal introduction to those venerable gentry. 

“ Why, you don’t mean ? Is it possible ? So you really are 
admitted — a lawyer, eh ?” 

“You see, sir — and that, too, without any Greek.” 

“ Well, and what good is it to do you? To have a profes- 
sion, Edward, is one thing; to get business, another!” 

“ Yes, sir — but I take it, the profession must be had first. 
One step is gained. That much is sure. The other, I trust, 
will follow in due season.” 

“ True, but I still think that the bricklayer would make the 
more money.” 

“Were money-making, sir, the only object of life, perhaps, 
then, that would be the most desirable business ; but — ” 

“ Oh, I forgot — the talents, the talents are to be considered.” 

And after the utterance of this sneer, our dialogue as may be 
supposed, did not much longer continue. 

I did not know of the contemplated visit of ]\rr. Edgerton to 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


my worthy uncle, nor of its purpose, or I should, most assuredly, 
have put my veto upon the measure with all the tenacity of a 
resentful spirit; hut this gentleman, who was a man of nice 
sensibility as well as strong good sense, readily comprehended 
a portion of my secret history from what was known to him 
He easily conceived that my uncle was somewhat of a niggard 
from the manner in which I had employed myself during my 
preparation for the bar. He thought, however, that my uncle, 
though unwilling to expend money in the prosecution of a scheme 
which he did not approve — now that the scheme was so far 
successful as to afford every promise of a reasonable harvest, 
could not do less than come forward to the assistance of one 
who had shown such a determined disposition to assist himself. 

He was mistaken. He little knew the man. His interview 
with my uncle was a short one. The parties v,^ere already ac- 
quainted, though not intimately. They knew each other as 
persons of standing in the same community, and this made the 
opening of Mr. Edgerton’s business easy. I state the tenoi of 
the interview as it came to my knowledge afterward. 

“ Mr. Clifford,” he said, “you have a nephew — a young gen- 
tleman, who has been recently admitted to the bar — Mr. Ed- 
ward Clifford.” 

The reply, with a look of wonder was necessarily affirmative. 

“ I have had much pleasure,” continued the other, “ in know- 
ing him for some time. He is an intimate of my eldest son, 
and from what has met my eyes, sir, I should say, you are for 
tunate in having a nephew of so much promise.” 

“ Why, yes, sir, I believe he is a clever youth enough,” was 
the costive answer. 

“ He is more than that, sir. I regard him, indeed, as a most 
astonishing young man. The very manner in which he has 
pursued his studies while engaged in the harassing labors of a 
large wholesale business house of this city — alone establishes 
this ffict.” 

The cheeks of my uncle reddened. The last sentence of 
Mr. Edgerton was unfortunate for his object. It conveyed a 
tacit reproof, which the niggardly conscience of Mr. Clifford 
readily appropriated and, perhaps, anticipated He dreaded 
lest Mr. Edgerton knew all. 


ADMITTED AMONG THE LAWYERS. 


8a 


“ You are probably aware, Mr. Edgerton,” be replied with 
equal hesitancy anH haste — “you have beard that Edward 
Clifford is an orphan — that he has nothing, and it was there- 
fore necessary that he should learn to employ himself ; though 
it was against my wish, sir, that he went into a mercantile 
house.” 

There was something suppressed in this — a mean evasion — 
for he could not easily have told Mr. Edgerton, without a blush, 
that, instead of the mercantile establishment, he would have 
made me a bricklayer’s hodman. But this, it seems, Edgerton 
liad found out for himself. His reply, however, was calculated 
to soothe the jealous apprehensions of Mr. Clifford. He had 
an object in view, which he thought too important to risk for 
the small pleasure of a passing sarcasm. 

“ Perhaps, it has happened for the best, Mr. Clifford. You 
were right in requiring the young man to do for himself. Were 
I -worth millions, sir, I should still prefer that my son should 
learn that lesson — that lie should work out his own deliver- 
ance with the sweat of his own brow.” 

“ I agree with you, sir, perfectly,” replied the other, with 
increased complacency. “ A boy learns to value his money as 
he should, only when he has earned it for himself.” 

“Ah ! it is not for this object simply,” replied Mr. Edgerton, 
“ that I would have him acquire habits of industry ; it is for 
the moral results which such habits produce — the firmness, 
character, consistency — the strength and independence — tem- 
perance, justice — all of which arise, and almost only, from 
obedience to this law. But it is clear that one can not do every- 
thing by himself, and this young man, though he has gone on 
in a manner that might shame the best of us, is still not so 
thoroughly independent as he fancies himself. It will be some 
time before he will be able to realize anything from his profes- 
sion, and he will need some small assistance in the meantime.” 

“ I can not help him,” exclaimed Mr. Clifford, abruptly — “ I 
have not the means to spare. My own family need everything 
that I can give. He has himself only to blame. He chose his 
j,rofession for himself. I warned him against it. He needn’t 
send to me.” 

“ Po not mistake me, Mr: Cliffoixl,” said Mr. Edgerton, calmly. 


34 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


** Your nephew knows nothing of my present visit. I would 
be loath that he should know. It was the singular independence 
of his mind that led me to the conviction, that he would sooner 
die than ask assistance from anybody, that persuaded me to 
suggest to you in what manner you might afford him an almost 
necessary help, without offending his sensibility.” 

“ Humph !” exclaimed the other, while a sneer mantled upon 
his lips. “ You are very considerate, Mr. Edgerton ; but the 
same sensibilities might prompt him to reject the assistance 
when tendered.” 

“ No, sir,” replied Edgerton, mildly — “ I think I could man, 
age that.” 

“ I am sorry, sir, that I can not second your wishes in any 
material respect,” was the answer of my uncle ; — “ but I will 
see Edward, and let him know that my house is open to him as 
it was from the time he was four years old ; and he shall have a 
seat at my table until he can establish himself more to his satis- 
faction ; but money, sir, in truth, I have not a cent to spare. My 
own necessities ” 

Enough, sir,” said Mr. Edgerton, mildly ; “ I take it for 
granted, Mr. Clifford, that if you could contribute to the success 
of your brother’s son, you certainly would neither refuse nor 
refrain to do so.” 

“Oh, surely — certainly not,” replied the other, hastily. 
“Anything that I could do — anything in reason, sir, I should 
be very happy to do, but ” 

And then followed the usual rigmarole about “ his own family,” 
and “ hard times,” and “ diminished resources,” and all those 
stereotype commonplaces which are for ever on the lips of stere- 
otype insincere people. Mr. Clifford did not perceive the dry 
and somewhat scornful inuendo, which lay at the bottom of Mr. 
Edgerton’s seemingly innocent assumption ; and the latter took 
his leave, vexed with himself at having made the unsuccessful 
application — but still more angry with the meanness of character 
which he had encountered in my uncle. 


BHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OP OTHERS. 


CHAPTER IV 

“ She still soothed 

The mock of others.” 

It is not improbable that, after a few hoi.rs given to calm re- 
flection, my uncle perceived how obnoxious lie might be made to 
public censure for his narrow treatment of my claims ; and the 
next day he sent for me in order to tender me the freedom of 
his house — a tender which he had made the day before to Mr. 
Edgerton in my behalf. But his offer had been already antici- 
pated by that excellent friend that very day. Coming warm 
and fresh from his interview with my uncle, he called upon me, 
and in a very plain, direct, business-like, but yet kind and 
considerate manner, informed me that he stood very much in 
need of an assistant who would prepare his papers — did me the 
honor to say that he fancied I would suit him better than 
anybody else he knew, and offered me six hundred dollars for 
my labors in that capacity for the first year of my service. 
My engagement to him, he said at the same time, did not imply 
such entire employment as would incapacitate me for the execu- 
jon of any business which might be intrusted to my hands indi- 
vidually. I was permitted the use of a desk in his office, and 
was also permitted to hang out my own banner from his window 
I readily persuaded myself that I could be of service to Mr. 
Edgerton — such service as would, perhaps, leave my obligation 
a light one — and promptly acceded to his ofter. He had scarce- 
ly departed when a servant brought a note from Mr. Clifford. 
Even while meditating what he fancied was a favor, he could not 
forbear the usual sneer. The following was his communication : 

“ Dear Edw^ard : If you can spare a moment from your 
numerous clients, and are not in a great hurry to make your de- 
posites, you will suffer me to see you at the office before two o’clock. 

“Yours affectionately, “ J. B. Ci-ifford.” 


36 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“Very affectionately!”! exclaimed. It might be nothing 
more than a pleasantry which he intended by the offensive pas- 
sages in his note ; but the whole tenor of his character and con- 
duct forbade this conviction. 

“ No ! no 1” I muttered to myself, as the doubt suggested itself 
to my mind ; “ no ! no 1 it is the old insolence — the insolence of 
pride, of conscious wealth — of power, as he thinks, to prush I 
But he is mistaken. He shall find defiance. Let him but repeat 
those sarcasms and that sneer which are but too frequent on his 
lips when he speaks to me, and I will answer him, for the first 
time, by a narration which shall sting him to the very soul, if 
he has one I” 

This resolution was scarcely made when the image of Julia 
Clifford — the sweet child — a child now no longer — the sweet 
woman — interposed, and my temper was subdued of its resolve, 
though its bitterness remained unqualified. 

And what of Julia Clifford ? I have said but little of her for 
some time past, but she has not been forgotten. Far from it. 
She was still sufficiently the attraction that drew me to the dwel- 
ling of my selfish uncle. In the three years that I had been at 
the mercantile establishment, her progress, in mind and person, 
had been equally ravishing and rapid. She was no more the 
child, but the blooming girl — the delicate blossom swelling to 
the bud — the bud bursting into the flower — but the bloom, and 
the beauty, and the innocence — the rich tenderness, and the 
dewy sweet, still remained the same through all the stages of 
her progress from the infant to the woman. Wealth, and the 
arrogant example of those about her, had failed to change the nat- 
urally true and pure simplicity of her character. She was not to 
be beguiled by the one, nor misguided by the other, from the ex- 
quisite heart which was still worthy of Eden. When I was ad- 
mitted to the bar at twenty-one, she was sixteen — the age in our 
southern country when a maiden looks her loveliest. But I had 
scarcely felt the changes in the last three years which had been 
going on in her. I beheld beauties added to beauties, charms 
to charms ; and she seemed every day to be the possessor of fresh 
graces newly dropped from heaven ; but there was no change. 
Increased perfection does not imply change, nor does it suffer it. 

It was my custom, as the condescending wish of my uncle 


SHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OP OTHERS. 


87 

expressed, that I should take my Sunday dinner Avitli his fami- 
ly. I complied with this request, and it was no hard matter to 
do so. But it was a sense of delight, not of duty, that made me 
comply ; and, but for Julia, I feel certain that I should never 
have darkened the doors, which opened to admit me only through 
a sense of duty. But the attraction — scarcely known to my- 
self — drew me with singular punctuality; and 1 associated the 
privilege which had been accorded me with another. I escorted 
the ladies to church; sometimes, too, when the business of my 
employers permitted, I spent an evening during the week with 
the family ; and beholding Julia I was not over-anxious to per- 
ceive the indifference with which I was treated by all others. 

But let me retrace my steps. I subdued my choler so far as 
to go, with a tolerable appearance of calmness if not humility, to 
the interview which my uncle had been pleased to solicit. I 
need not repeat in detail what passed between us. It amounted 
simply to a supercilious offer, on his part, of lodging and board, 
until I should be sufficiently independent to open the oyster for 
myself. I thanked him with respect and civility, but, to his sur- 
prise, declined to accept his offer. 

“ Why, what do you propose to do 1” he demanded. 

“ Do what I have been doing for the three past years ; work 
for myself, and pay my board from the proceeds of my own la- 
bor.” 

“ What, you go back to the merchants, do you 1 You are wiser 
than I thought. The law would not give you your bread here 
for twenty years in this city.” 

“You are mistaken, uncle,” I said, good humoredly — “it is 
from the law that I propose to get my bread.” 

“Indeed! — You are even more sanguine than I thought 
you. But, pray, upon what do you base your expectations ? — 
the talents, I suppose.” 

I felt the rankling of this well-known and offensive sneer, but 
replied simply to the point : — 

“ No, sir, upon assurances which you will probably think far 
more worthy of respect. I have already been employed by Mr. 
Edgerton as an attorney, at a salary of six hundred dollars.” 

“ Ah, indeed 1 Well, you are a fortunate fellow, I must say, to 
get such a helping hand at the outset. But you may want some 


3b 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

small amount to begin with — you can not draw upon Mr. Edger- 
ton before services are rendered, and if fifty or a hundred dol- 
lars, Edward ” 

“ I thank you, sir; — so far from wanting money, I should be 
almost able to lend some. I have saved some two hundred 
my mercantile salary ” 

I enjoyed the ghastly grin which rose to his features. It was 
evident that he was not pleased that I should be independent. 
He had set out with the conviction, when my father died, that 
my support and education would devolve upon him, and though 
they did not, yet it was plain enough to me that he was not un- 
willing that such should be the impression of the community. I 
had disarmed him entirely by the simplest process, and, mortified 
at being disappointed, he was disposed to hate the youth who had 
baffled him. It was the strangest thing in the world that such 
should be the feeling of any man, and that, too, in reference to 
so near a relation ; but the case is nevertheless true. I saw it in 
his looks that moment — I felt it in his accents. I knew that 
such was the real feeling in his soul. There are motives which 
grow from vanities, piques, rivalries, and the miserable ostenta- 
tions of a small spirit, which act more terribly upon the passions 
of man, than even the desire of gain or the love of woman. The 
heart of Mr. Clifford, was, after its particular fashion, a blind 
heart, like my own. 

“ Well, I am glad you are so well off. You will dine with us 
on Sunday, I suppose ?” 

My affirmative was a matter of course ; and, on Sunday, the 
evident gratification of Julia w’hen she saw me, amply atoned 
for all her father’s asperities and injustice. She had heard of my 
success — and though in a sneer from the lips of her father it was 
not the less productive of an evident delight to her. She met 
me with the expression of this delight upon all her features. 

“ I am so glad, so very glad, and so surprised, too. Cousin 
Edward, at your success. And yet you kept it all to yourself. 
You might have told me, at least, that you were studying law. 
Why was it that I was never allowed to know of your 
intention?” 

“ Your father knew it, Julia.” 

‘ Yes, so be says now. He says you told him something 


SHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OF OTHERS. 39 

about it when you first went into a store ; but he did not think 
you in earnest.” 

“ Not in earnest ! He little knew me, Julia.” 

“ But your telling him, Edward, was not telling me. Why 
did you not tell me V’ 

“ You might not have kept my secret, Julia. You know 
what naughty things are said of your sex, touching your inabil- 
ity to keep a secret.” 

“Naughty things, indeed — naughty and untrue! I’m sure, 
I should have kept your secret, if you desired it. But why 
should it be a secret 1” 

“Why, indeed !” I muttered, as the shadow of my perverse 
ness passed deeply over my heart. “ Why, unless to protect 
myself from the sneers which would stifle my ambition, and the 
sarcasm which would have stung my heart.” 

“ But you have no fear of these from me. Cousin Edward,” 
she said gently, and with dewy eyes, while her fingers slightly 
pressed upon my wrist. 

“ I know not that. Cousin Julia, I somehow suspect every- 
thing and everybody now. I feel very lonely in the world — 
as if there was a destiny at work to make my whole life one 
long conflict, which I must carry on without .sympathy or 
succor.” 

“ Oh, these are only notions, Edward.” 

“ Notions !” I exclaimed, giving her a bitter smila as I spoke, 
while my thoughts reverted to the three years of unremitting 
and almost uncheered labor through Avhich I had passed. 

“Yes, notions only. Cousin Edward. You are full of such 
notions. You every now and then start up with a new one; 
and it makes you gloomy and discontented — ” 

“ I make no complaints, Julia.” 

“No, that is the worst of it. You make no complaints, I 
think, because you do not wish to be cured of them. You pre- 
fer nursing your supposed cause of grief, with a sort of solitary 
pleasure — the gratification of a haughty spirit, that is too proud 
to seek for solace, and to find it.” 

Julia had in truth touched upon the true nature of my mis- 
anthropy— of tliat self-vexing and self-torturing spirit, which 
too effectually blinds the heart. 


40 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


*‘But could I find it, Julia?” I asked, looking into her eyes 
with an expression which I began to feel was something very 
new to mine. 

“Perhaps — I think — you could,” was the half-tremulous 
answer, as she beheld the peculiar expression of my glance. 
The entrance of Mrs. Clifford, was, perhaps, for the first time, 
rather a relief to us both. 

“ And so you are a lawyer, Edward ? Well, who would have 
thought of it ? It must be a very easy thing to be made a 
lawyer.” 

Julia looked at me with eyes that reddened with vexation. 
I felt my gorge rising ; but when I reflected upon the ignorance, 
and the unworthy nature of the speaker, I overcame the dispo- 
sition to retort, and smilingly replied : — 

“ It’s not such hard work as bricklaying, certainly.” 

“Ah,” she answered, “if it were only half so profitable. 
But Mr. Clifford says that a lawyer now is only another name 
for a beggar — a sort of genteel beggar. The town’s overrun 
with them — half of them live upon their friends.” 

“ I trust I shall not add to the number of this class, Mrs. 
Clifford.” 

“ Oh, no ! I know you never will, Cousin Edward,” exclaimed 
Julia, with a flush upon her cheeks at her own temerity. 

“ Really, Julia,” said her mother, “ you are very confident. 
How do you know anything about it ?” 

The sharp glances of rebuke which accompanied this speech 
daunted the damsel for a moment, and her eyes were suddenly 
cast in confusion upon the ground ; but she raised them with 
boldness a moment after, as she replied : — 

“We have every assurance, mother, for what I say, in the 
fact that Cousin Edward has been supporting himself at another 
business, while actually pursuing the study of law for these 
three years ; and that very pride about which father spoke to- 
day, is another assurance — ” 

“ Bless my stars, child, you have grown very pert on a sud- 
den, to talk about guaranties and assurances, just as if you was 
a lawyer yourself. The next thing we hear, I suppose, will be 
that instead of being busy over the ‘ Seven Champions’ and the 
last fashions, you, too, will be tinning over the leaves of big 


SHE SOOTHED THE MOCK OF OTHERS. 


41 


law-books, and carrying on such studies in secret to surprise a 
body, as ii there was any merit or good in doing such things 
secretly.” 

Julia felt that she had only made bad worse, and she hung 
her head in silence. For my part, though I suppressed my 
choler, the pang was only the more keenly felt for the effort to 
hide it. In my secret soul, I asked, ” Will the day never come 
when I, too, will be able to strike and sting?” I blushed an 
instant after, at the small and mean appetite for revenge that 
such an inquiry implied. But I came to the support of Julia. 

Let me say, Mrs. Clifford, that I think — nay, I know — that 
Julia is right in her conjecture. The guaranty which I have 
given to my friends, by the pride and industry which I have 
shown, should be sufficient to convince them what my conduct 
shall be hereafter. I know that I shall never trespass upon 
their feelings or their pockets. They shall neither blush for 
nor lose by their relationship with Edward Clifford.” 

“Well said! well spoken! with good emphasis and proper 
action. Forrest himself could scarce have done it better!” 

Such was the exclamation of Mr. Clifford, who entered the 
room at this moment. His mock applause was accompanied by 
a clamorous clapping of his hands. I felt my cheeks burn, and 
my blood boil. The truth is, I was not free from the conscious- 
ness that I had suffered some of the grandiloquent to apjpear 
in my manner while speaking the sentence which had provoked 
the ridicule of my uncle. The sarcasm acquired increase of 
sting in consequence of its being partially well-merited. I re- 
plied with some little show of temper, which the imploring 
glances of Julia did not altogether persuade me to suppress. 
The “ blind heart” was growing stronger within me, from tbe 
increasing conviction of my own independence. In this sort of 
mimic warfare the day passed off as usual. I attended the 
Rmily to church in the afternoon, took tea, and spent the even- 
ing with them — content to suffer the “stings and arrows” — 
however outrageous, of my exemplary and Christian aunt and 
uncle, if permitted to enjoy the presence and occasional smiles 
0£ the true angel, whose influence could still temper my feelings 
r'nt a humane and patient toleration of influences which they 
yet burned to trample under foot. 


42 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER V. 

DEBUT. 

A BRIEF interval now passed over, after my connection begun 
with Mr. Edgerton, in which time the world went on with me 
more smoothly, perhaps, than ever. My patron — for so this 
gentleman deserves to he called — was as indulgent as I could 
wish. He soon discerned the weaknesses in my character, and 
with the judgment of an old practitioner, he knew how to sub- 
due and soften, without seeming to perceive them. I need not 
say that I was as diligent and industrious, and not less studious, 
while in his employ, than I had been in that of my mercantile 
acquaintance. The entire toils of the desk soon fell upon my 
shoulders, and I acquired the reputation among my small circle 
of acquaintance, of being a very good attorney for a young be- 
ginner. It is true, I was greatly helped by the continued peru- 
sal of an admirable collection of old precedents, which a long 
period of extensive practice had accumulated in the collection 
of my friend. But to be an attorney, simply, was not the bound 
of my ambition. I fancied that the forum was, before all others, 
my true field of exertion. The ardency of my temper, the 
fluency of my speech, the promptness of my thought, and the 
warmth of my imagination, all conspired in impressing on me 
the belief that I was particularly fitted for the arena of public 
disputation. This, I may add, was the opinion of Mr. Edger- 
ton also ; and I soon sought an occasion for the display of my 
powers. 

It was the custom at our bar — and a custom full of danger 
— for young beginners to take their cases from the criminal 
docket. Their “ ’prentice han’,” was usually exercised on soms 
wretch from the stews, just as the young surgeon is permitted 
to hack the carcass of a tenant of the “ Paupers’ Field,” the 


DEBUT. 


43 


better to prepare him for practice on living and more worthy 
victims. Was there a rascal so notoriously given over to the 
gallows that no hope could possibly be entertained of his extri- 
cation from the toils of the evidence, and the deliberations of a 
jury, he was considered fair game for the young lawyers, who, 
on such cases, gathered about him with all the ghostly and keen 
propensities of vultures about the body of the horse cast out upon 
the commons. 

The custom was evil, and is now, I believe, abandoned. It 
led to much irreverence among thoughtless young men — to an 
equal disregard of that solemnity which should naturally attach 
to the court of justice, and to the life of the prisoner arraigned 
before it. A thoughtless levity too frequently filled the mind 
of the young lawyer and his hearers, when it was knoAvn that 
the poor wretch on trial was simply regarded as an agent, 
through whose miserable necessity, the beginner was to try 
liis strength and show his skill in the art of speech-making. It 
was my fortune, acting rather in compliance with the custom 
than my own preference, to select one of these victims and oc- 
casions for my debut. I could have done otherwise. Mr. Ed- 
gerton freely tendered to me any one of several cases of his 
own, on the civil docket, in which to make my appearance ; 
but I was unwilling to try my hand upon a case in which the 
penalty of ill success might be a serious loss to my friend’s 
client, and might operate to the injury of his business ; and, 
another reason for my preference was to be found — though not 
expressed by me — in the secret belief which I entertained that 
I was peculiarly gifted with the art of appealing to the pas- 
sions, and the sensibilities of my audience. 

Having made my determination, I proceeded to prepare my- 
self by a due consideration of the case at la>‘ge ; the history 
of the transaction, which involved the life of my client — (the 
allegation was for murder) — and of the testimony of the wit- 
nesses so far as it had been suggested in the exjmrte examina- 
tion before the grand jury. I reviewed the several leading 
principles on the subject of the crime; its character, the sort 
of evidence essential to conviction, and certainly, to do myself 
all justice, as effectually prepared myself for the duties of the 
trial as probablv any young man of the time and community 


44 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


was likely to have done. The case, I need not add, was hope- 
lessly against me ; the testimony conclusive ; and I had noth- 
ing to do hut to weigh its character with keen examination, 
pick out and expose its defects and inconsistencies, and suggest 
as plausible a presumption in favor of the accused, as could be 
reasonably made out from the possibilities and doubts by which 
all human occurrences are necessarily attended. Something, 
too, might be done by judicious appeals to the principle of 
mercy, assuming for the jury a discretion on this subject which, 
by the way, they have no right to exercise. 

I was joined in the case by my friend, young Edgerton. So 
far our boyish fortunes had run together, and he was not un- 
willing, though against his father’s counsel, to take the same 
occasion with me for entering the world in company. The 
term began ; the case was one of the last on the criminal 
docket, and the five days which preceded that assigned for the 
trial, were days, I am constrained to confess, of a thrilling and 
terrible agitation to my mind. I can scarcely now recall the 
feelings of that week without undergoing a partial return of 
the same painful sensations. My soul was striving as with it- 
self, and seeking an outlet for escape. I panted, as if for 
breath — my tongue was parched — my lips clammy — my 
voice, in the language of the poet, clove to the roof of my 
throat. Altogether, I have never felt such emotions either be- 
fore or since. 

I will not undertake to analyze them, or account for those 
conflicting sensations which make us shrink, with something 
like terror, from the very object which we desire. At length 
the day came, and the man ; attended by his father, William 
Edgerton, and myself, took our places, and stood prepared for 
the issue. I looked round me with a dizzy feeling of uncer- 
tainty. Objects appeared to swim and tremble before my 
sight. My eyes were of as little service to me then as if they 
had been gazing to blindness upon the sun. Everything was 
confused and imperfect. I could see that the courthouse was 
filled to overflowing, an4 this increased my feebleness. The 
case was one that had occasioned considerable excitement in 
(:l:e community. It was one of no ordinary atrocity. This was 
a sufficient reason why the audience should be large, ’rhero 


DEBUT. 


If) 

was yet another. There were two new debutants, in a. com- 
munity 'where popular eloquence is, of all others, perhaps the 
most desirable talent, this circumstance was well calculated to 
bring many listeners. Besides, something was expected from 
both Edgerton and myself. We had not reached our present 
position without making for ourselves a little circle, in which 
we had friends to approve and exult, and enemies to depreciate, 
and condemn. 

The proceedings were at length opened by the attorney-gen- 
eral, the witnesses examined, and turned over to us for cross- 
examination. This part of the duty was performed by my as- 
sociate. The business fairly begun, my distraction was les- 
sened. My mind, driven to a point, made a decisive stand ; 
and the sound of Edgerton’s voice, as he proposed his questions, 
served still more to dissipate my confusion. I furnished him 
with sundry questions, and our examination was admitted to be 
quite searching and acute. My friend went through his part 
of the labor with singular coolness. He was in little or no 
respect excited. He, perhaps, was deficient in enthusiasm. If 
there was no faltering in what he said, there was no fine 
phrensy. His remarks and utterance were subdued to the 
plainest demands of the subject. They were shrewd and sensi- 
ble, not particularly ingenious, nor yet deficient in the proper 
analysis of the evidence. He acquitted himself creditably. 

It was my part to reply to the prosecuting attorney ; but 
when I rose, I was completely confounded. Never shall I 
forget the pang of that impotence which seemed to overspread 
my frame, and to paralyze every faculty of thought and speech. 
I was the victim to my own ardor. A terrible reaction of mind 
had taken place, and I was prostrated. The desire to achieve 
greatness — the belief that it was expected from me — the con- 
sciousness that hundreds of eyes were then looking into mine 
with hungering expectation, overwhelmed me ! I felt that I 
could freely have yielded myself for burial beneath the floor 
on which I stood. My cheeks were burning, yet my hands were 
cold as ice, and my knees tottered as with an ague. I strove 
to speak, however ; the eyes of the judge met mine, and they 
looked the language of encouragement — of pity. But this ex- 
pression only increased my confusion. I stammered out noth* 


46 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


ing but broken syllables and incoherent sentences. What I 
was saying, I know not — how long I presented this melancholy 
spectacle of imbecility to the eyes of my audience, I know not 
It may have been a few minutes only. To me it seemed an 
age ; and I was just endued with a sufficient power of reflec- 
tion to ask myself whether I had not better sit down at once 
in iiTeversible despair, when my wandering and hitherto vacant 
eyes caught a glance — a single glance — of a face opposite. 

It was that of my uncle ! He was perched on one of the 
loftiest benches, conspicuous among the crowd — his eyes keen- 
ly fixed upon mine, and his features actually brightened by a 
smile of triumphant malice and exultation. 

That glance restored me. That single smile brought me 
strength. I was timid, and weak, and impotent no longer. 
Under the presence of habitual scorn, my habitual pride and in- 
dependence returned to me. The tremors left my limbs. The 
clammy huskiness which had loaded my tongue, and made it 
cleave to the roof of my mouth, instantly departed ; and my 
whole mind returned to my control as if beneath the command 
of some almighty voice. I now saw the judge distinctly — I 
could see the distinct features of every juryman ; and with the 
pride of my restored consciousness, I retorted the smile upon 
my uncle’s face with one of contempt, which was not without 
its bitterness. 

Then I spoke, and spoke with an intenseness, a directness of 
purpose and aim — a stern deliberateness — a fire and a feeling 
— which certainly electrified my hearers with surprise, if with 
no more elevated emotions. That one look of hostility had 
done more for my mind than could have been effected in my 
behalf by all the kind looks and encouraging voices of all the 
friends in creation. 

After a brief exordium, containing some general propositions 
on the subject of human testimony, which meant no more than 
to suggest the propriety of giving to the prisoner the benefit 
of what was doubtful and obscure in the testimony which had 
been taken against him — I proceeded to compare and contrast 
its several parts. There were some inconsistencies in the evi- 
dence which enable me to make something of a case. The 
character of the witnesses was something more than doubtful, 


DEBUT. 


47 


and that, too, helped, in a slight degree, my argument. This 
was rapid, direct, closely wound together, and proved — such 
was the opinion freely expressed by others, afterward — that I 
had the capacity for consecutive arrangement of facts and in- 
ferences in a very remarkable degree. I closed with an appeal 
in favor of that erring nature, which, even in our own cases, 
led us hourly to the commission of sins and errors ; and which, 
where the individual was poor, wretched, and a stranger, under 
the evil influences of destitution, vicious associations, and a lot 
in life, which, of necessity, must be low, might well persuade 
us to look with an eye of qualified rebuke upon his offences. 

This was, of course, no argument, and was only to be con- 
sidered the natural close of my labors. Before I was half 
through I saw my uncle rise from his seat, and hastily leave the 
court-room ; and then I knew that I was successful — that I had 
triumphed, through that stimulating influence of his hate, over 
my own fears and feebleness. I felt sure that the speech must 
he grateful to the rest of my hearers, which he could not stay 
to hear ; and in this conviction, the tone of my spirits became 
elevated — the thoughts gushed from me like rain, in a natural 
and unrestrainable torrent of language — my voice was clear 
and full, far more so than I had ever thought it could be made 
— and my action far more animated, perhaps, than either good 
taste or the occasion justified. The criminal was not acquitted ; 
but both William Edgerton and myself were judged to have 
been eminently successful. 

The result of my debut, in other respects, was flattering far 
beyond my expectations. Business poured in upon me. My 
old employers, the merchants, were particularly encouraging 
and friendly. They congratulated me warmly on my success, 
assured me that they had always thought I was better calcu- 
lated for the law than trade ; and ended by putting into my 
hands all their accounts that needed a legal agency for collec- 
tion. Mr. Edgerton was loud in his approbation, and that very 
week saw his son and myself united in co-partnership, with the 
prospect of an early withdrawal of the father from business in 
our favor. Indeed, the latter gave us to understand that his 
only purpose now was to see us fairly under way, with a suffi- 
cient knowledge of the practice, and assured of the confidence 


48 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


of his own friends, in order to give his years and enfeebled 
health a respite from the toils of the profession. 

My worthy uncle, true to himself, played a very different 
part from these gentlemen. He hung back, forbore all words 
on the subject of my debut, and of the promising auspices 
under which my career was begun, and actually placed certain 
matters of legal business into the hands of another lawyer. 
Of this, he himself gave me the first information in very nearly' 
this language : — 

“ I have juyt had to sue Yardle & Fellows, and a few others, 
Edward, and I thought of employing you, but you are young, 
and there may be some legal difficulties in the way : — but when 
you get older, and arrive at some experience, we will see what 
can be done for you.” 

“You are perfectly right, sir,” was my only answer, but the 
smile upon my lips said everything. I saw, then, that he could 
not smile. He was now exchanging the feeling of scorn which 
he formerly entertained for one of a darker quality. Hate was 
the necessary feeling which followed the conviction of his having 
done me wilful injustice — not to speak of the duties left undone, 
which were equally his shame. 

There were several things to mortify him in my progress. 
His sagacity as a man of the world stood rebuked — his con- 
duct as a gentleman — his blood as a relation, who had not 
striven for the welfare and good report of his kin, and who had 
suffered unworthy prejudices, the result of equal avarice and 
arrogance, to operate against him. 

There is nothing which a base spirit remembers with so much 
malignant tenacity as your success in his despite. Even in the 
small matter just referred to, the appropriation of his law busi- 
ness, the observant fates gave me my revenge. By a singular 
coincidence of events, the very firm against which he had 
brought action the day before were clients of Mr. Edgerton. 
That gentleman was taken with a serious illness at the ap 
proacli of the next court, and the business of their defence 
devolved upon his son and myself ; and finally, when it was 
disposed of, which did not happen till near the close of that 
year, it so happened that I argued the case ; and was suc- 
cessful. 


DEBUT. 


49 


Mr. Clifford was baffled, and you may judge tlie feeling with 
•^hicb he now regarded me. He had long since ceased to jest 
with me and at my expense. He was now very respectful, and 
I could see that his dislike grew daily in strict degree with his 
deference. But the deportment of Mr. Clifford — springing as 
it did from that devil, which each man is supposed to carry at 
times in his bosom, and of whose presence in mine at seasons I 
was far from unaware — gave me less annoyance than that of 
another of his household. Julia, too, had put on an aspect 
which, if not that of coldness, was at least, that of a very 
marked reserve. I ascribed this to the influence of her parents 
— perhaps, to her own sense of what was due to their obvious 
desires — to her own feeling of indifference — to any and every 
cause but the right one. 

There were other circumstances to alarm me, in connection 
with this maiden. She was, as I have said, singularly beaut’ 
fill ; and, as I thought, until now, singularly meek and consid- 
m-ate. Her charms, about which there could be no two opinion^, 
readily secured her numerous admirers, and when these were 
strengthened by the supposed fortune of which she was to b^ 
the heiress, the suitors were, some of them, almost as pressing, 
after the fashion of the world in which we lived, as those of 
Penelope. I now no longer secured her exclusive regard at 
che evening fireside or in our way to church. There were gal- 
lants on either hand — gay, dashing lads, with big whisker^, 
long locks, and smart rataiis, upon whom madame, our lady- 

other, looked with far more complacency than upon me. The 
course of Julia, herself, was, however, unexceptionable. She 
was singularly cautious in her deportment, and, if reserved to me. 
the most jealous scrutiny -after due reflection — never enabled 
me to discover that she was more lavish of her regards to any 
other. But the discovery of her position led me to another 
discovery which the reader w'ill wonder, as I did myself, that 
I had not made before. This was the momentous discovery 
that my heart was irretrievably lost to her — that I loved her 
with all the intensity of a first passion, which, like every otlier 
passion in my heart, was absorbing during its prevalence. I 
cDuld name my feelings to myself only when I perceived that 
such feelings were entertained by others; — only when 1 found 

3 


50 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


that the prize, which I desired beyond all others, was likely t 
be borne away by strangers, did I know how much it was desi 
rable to myself. 

The discovery of this affection instantly produced its natural 
effects as well upon my deportment as upon my feelings ; and 
that sleepless spirit of suspicion and doubt — that true creature 
and consequence of the habitual distrust which my treatment 
from boyhood had insnlled into my mind — at once rose to 
strength and authority within me, and swayed me even as the 
blasts of November sway the bald tops of the slender trees 
which the gusts have already denuded of all foliage. The 
change in Julia’s deportment, of which I have already spoken, 
increased the febrile fears and suspicions which filled my soul 
and overcame my judgment. She too — so I fancied — had 
learned to despise and dislike me, under the goading influences 
of her father’s malice and her mother’s silly prejudices. I 
jumped to the conclusion instantly, that I was bound to my 
self to assert my superiority, my pride and independence, in 
such a manner, as most effectually to satisfy all parties tha 
their hate or love was equally a matter of indifference. 

You may judge what my behavior was after this. For a 
time, at least, it was sufliciently unbecoming. The deportment of 
Julia grew more reserved than ever, and her looks more grave. 
There was a sadness evidently mingled with this gravity which, 
amid all the blindness of my heart, I could not help but see. 
She became sadder and thinner every day ; and there was a 
wo-begone listlessness about her looks and movements wliic^* 
began to give me pain and apprehension. I discovered, too 
after a while, that some apprehensions had also crept into the 
minds of her parents in respect to her health. Their looks 
were frequently addressed to her in evident anxiety. They 
restrained her exercises, watched the weather when she pro- 
posed to go abroad, strove in every way to keep her from 
fatigue and exposure; and, altogether, exhibited a degree of 
solicitude which at length had the effect of arousing mine. 

Involuntarily, I approached her with more tenderness than 
my vexing spirit had recently permitted me to show ; but I re- 
coiled from the effects of my own attentions. I was Vexed to 
perceive that my approaches occasioned a start, a flutter — a 


DEBUT. 51 

tbrmking inward — as if my advance Lad been obtrusive, and 
my attempts at familiarity otfensive. 

I was then little schooled in the intricacies of the female 
heart. I little conjectured the origin of that seemingly para- 
doxical movement of the mind, which, in the c/ise of one, 
sensitive and exquisitely delicate, prompts to flight from the 
very pursuit which it would yet invite ; which dreads to be sus- 
pected of the secret which it yet most loves to cherish, and 
seeks to protect, by concealment, the feelings which it may not 
defend ; even as the bird hides the little fledglings of its care 
from the hunter, whom it dare not attack. 

Stupid, and worse than stupid, my blind heart saw nothing 
of this, and perverted what it saw. I construed the conduct 
of Julia into matter of offence, to be taken in high dudgeon 
and resolutely resented ; and I drew myself up stiffly when she 
appeared, and by excess of ceremonious politeness only, avoided 
the reproach of brutality. Yet, even at such moments, I could 
see that there was a dewy reproach in her eyes, which should 
have humbled me, and made me penitent. But the effects of 
fifteen years of injudicious management were not to be divS- 
eipated in a few days even by the Ithuriel spells of love. My 
sense of independence and self-resource had been stimulated to 
a diseased excess, until, constantly on the qui vive, it became 
dogged and inflexible. It was a work of time to soften me 
and make me relent ; and the labor then was one of my own 
secret thoughts, and unbiased private decision. The attempt 
to persuade or reason me into a conviction was sure to be a 
failure. 

Months passed in this manner without effecting any serious 
change in Julia, or in bringing us a step nearer to one another. 
Meanwhile, the sphere of my observation and importance in* 
creased, as the circle of my acquaintance became extended. I 
was regarded as a rising young man, and one likely to be suc- 
cessful ultimately in my profession. The social privileges of 
my friends, the Edgertons, necessarily became mine ; and it 
soon occurred tliat I encountered my uncle and his family in 
circles in which it was somewhat a matter of pride with him to 
be permitted to move. This, as it increased my importance 
in his sight, did not diminish his pains. But he treated mo 


52 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

now with constant deference, though witn the same unvarying 
coldness. When in the presence of others, he warmed a little. 
I was then “ his nephew and he would affect to speak with 
great familiarity on the subject of my business, my interests; 
the last case in which I was engaged, and so forth — the object 
of which was to persuade third persons that our relations were 
precisely as they should be, and as people would naturally suo 
pose them. 

At all these places and periods, when it was my lot to meet 
with Julia, she was most usually the belle of the night. A 
dozen attendants followed in her train, solicitous of all her 
smiles, and only studious how to afford her pleasure. I, only, 
stood aloof — I, who loved her with a more intense fervor than 
all, simply because I had none, or few besides to love. The 
heart which has been evennore denied, will always burn with 
this intensity. Its passion, once enkindled, will be the all-ab- 
sorbing flame. Devoted itself, it exacts the most religior;s 
devotion ; and, unless it receives it, recoils upon its own re- 
sources, and shrouds itself in gloom, simply to hide its sufferings 
from detection. 

I affected that indifference to the charms *f this maiden, 
which no one of human sensibilities could have felt. Opinions 
might have differed in respect to her beauty ; but there could 
be none on the score of her virtues and her amiability, and al- 
most as few on the possessions of her mind. Julia Clifford, 
though singularly unobtrusive in society, very soon convinced 
all around her that she had an excellent understanding, which 
study had improved, and grace had adorned by all the most 
appropriate modes of cultivation. Her steps were always fol- 
lowed by a crowd — her seat invariably encircled by a group to 
itself. I looked on at a distance, wrapped up in the impene- 
trable folds of a pride, whose sleeves were momently plucked, 
as I watched, by the nervous fingers of jealousy and suspicion. 
Sometimes I caught a timid glance of her eye, addressed to the 
spot where I stood, full of inquiry, and, as I could not but be- 
lieve, of apprehension; — and yet, at such moments. I turned 
perversely from the spot, nor suffered mycoT* Co steal another 
look at one, all of whoso triumphs seemod ma-lo at my ex- 
pense. 


DEBUT. 


63 


On one of these occasions we met — our eyes and hands, ac- 
cidentally ; and, though I, myself, could not help starting back 
with a cold chill at my heart, I yet fancied there was some- 
thing monstrous insulting in the evident recoil of her person 
from the contact with mine, at the same moment. I was about 
to turn hurriedly away with a slight bow of acknowledgment, 
when the touching tenderness of her glance, so full of sweet- 
ness and sadness, made me shrink with shame from such a rude- 
ness. Besides, she was so pale, so thin, and really looked so 
unwell, that my conscience, in spite of that blind heart whose 
perversity would still have kept me to my first intention, re- 
buked me, and drove me to my duty. I approached — I spoke 
to her — and my words, though few, under the better impulses 
of the moment, were gentle and solicitous, as they should have 
been. My tones, too, were softened: — wilfully as I still felt, 
I could not forbear the exercise of that better ministry of the 
affections which was disposed to make amends for previous mis- 
conduct. I do not know exactly what I said — I probably did 
nothing more than utter the ordinary phrases of social compli- 
ment ; — but everything was obliterated from my mind in an 
instant, by the startling directness of what was said by her. 
Looking at me with a degree of intentness by which, alone, 
she was, perhaps, able to preserve her seeming calmness, she 
replied by an inquiry as remote from what my observation 
called for as possible, yet how applicable to me and my conduct ! 

“ Why do you treat me thus, Edward ? Why do you neg- 
lect me as you do — as if I were a stranger, or, at least, not 
a friend ? What have I done to merit this usage from one 
who ” 

She did not finish the sentence, but her reproachful eyes, full 
of a dewy suffusion that seemed very much like tears, appeared 
to conclude it thus — 

“ One who — used to love me !” 

So different was this speech from any that I looked for — s: 
different from what the usage of our conventional world wool i 
have seemed to justify — so strange for one so timid, so silent 
usually on the subject of her own griefs, as Julia Olifford — 
that I was absolutely confounded. Where had she got this cour- 
age ? By what strong feeling had i^ been stimulated ? Had 1 


64 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


been at that time as well acquainted with the sex as I have 
grown since, I must have seen that nothing but a deep interest 
in my conduct and regard, could possibly have prompted the 
spirit of one so gentle and shrinking, to the utterance of so 
searching an appeal. And in what way could I answ'er it ? 
How could I excuse myself? What say, to justify that cold, 
rude indifference to a relative, and one who had ever been 
gentle and kind and true to me. I had really nothing to com- 
plain of. The vexing jealousies of my own suspicious heart 
had alone infonned it to its perversion; and there I stood — 
dumb, confused, stupid — speaking, when I did speak, some in- 
coherent, meaningless sentences, which could no more have been 
understood by her than they can now be remembered by me. 
I recovered myself, however, sufficiently soon to say, before wo 
were separated by the movements of the crowd : — 

“I will come to you to-morrow, Julia. Will you suffer me 
to see you in th 3 morning, say at twelve T’ 

“ Yes, come ! ' was all her answer ; and the next moment the 
harsh accents . : her ever-watchfal mother warned us to ri«k 


no more. 


DENIAL AND DEFEAT 


/)5 


CHAPTER Vi. 

DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 

My sleep that night was anything but satisfactory. I had 
feverish dreams, unquiet slumbers, and woke at morning with 
an excruciating headache. I was in no mood for an explana- 
tion such as my promise necessarily implied, but I prepared my 
toilet with particular care — spent two hours at my office in a 
vain endeavor to divert myself, by a resort to business, from the 
conflicting and annoying sensations which afflicted me, and then 
proceeded to the dwelling of my uncle. 

I was fortunate in seeing Julia without the presence of her 
mother. That good lady had become too fashionable to suffer 
herself to be seen at so early an hour. Her vanity, in this re- 
spect, baffled her vigilance, for she had her own apprehensions 
on the score of my influence upon her daughter. Julia was 
scarcely so composed in the morning as she had appeared on 
the preceding night. I was now fully conscious of a flutter in 
her manner, a flush upon her face, an ill-suppressed apprehen- 
sion in her eyes, which betokened strong emotions actively at 
work. But my own agitation did not suffer me to know the 
full extent of hers. For the first time, on her appeaiance, did 
I ask myself the question — “For what did I seek this inter- 
view*?” What had I to say — what hear? How explain my 
conduct — my coldness ? On what imaginary and unsubstantial 
premises base the neglect in my deportment, amounting to ruflo- 
ness, of which she had sufficient reason and a just right to com- 
plain ? When I came to review my causes of vexation, how^ 
trivial did they seem. The reserve which had irritated me, on 
her part, now that I analyzed its sources, seemed a very natural 
reserve, such as was only maidenly and becoming. 1 now rec- 
ollected that she was no longer a child — no longer the lively 


50 


CONFESSION, OU THE BLIND HEART. 

little fairy whom I could dandle on my knee and fling upon my 
shoulder, without a scruple or complaint. I stood like a trem- 
bling culprit in her presence. I was eloquent only through the 
force of a stricken conscience. 

“ Julia !” I exclaimed when we met, “ I have come to make 
atonement. I feel how rude I have been, but that was only 
because I was very wretched.” 

“ Wretched, Edward !” she exclaimed with some surprise. 
“ What should make you wretched 

“ You — you have made me wretched.” 

“ Me !” Her surprise naturally increased. 

“ Yes, you, dear Julia, and you only.” 

I took her hand in mine. Mine was burning — hers was 
colder than the icicles. Need I say more to those who com- 
prehend the mysteries of J;he youthful heart. Need I say that 
the tongue once loosed, and the declaration of the soul must 
follow in a rush from the lips. I told her how much I loved 
her; — how unhappy it made me to think that others might 
bear away the prize ; that, in this way, my rudeness arose from 
my wretchedness, and my wretchedness only from my love. I 
did not speak in vain. She confessed an equal feeling, and we 
were suffered a brief hour of ujmiitigated happiness together. 

Surely there is no joy like that which the heart feels in the 
first moment when it gives utterance to its own, and hears the 
avowed passion of the desired object: — a pure flame, the child 
of sentiment, just blushing with the hues of passion, just bud- 
ding with the breath and bloom of life. No sin has touched 
the sentiment; — no gross smokes have risen to involve and ob- 
scure the flame ; the altar is tended by pure hands ; w'hite 
spirits ; and there is no reptile beneath the fresh blossoming 
flowers which are laid thereon. The gTosser passions sleep, 
like the fumes at the shrine of Apollo, beneath the spell of that 
master passion in whose presence they can only maintain a sub- 
ordinate existence. I loved; I had told my love ; — and I was 
loved in return. I trembled with the deep intoxication of that 
bewildering moment ; and how I found my way back to my 
office — whom I saw on the way, or to whom I spoke, I know 
not. I loved; — I was beloved. He only can conceive the 
delirium of this sweet knowledge who has passed a life like 


DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 


o7 

mine — who lias felt the frowns and the scorn, and the conteinpi 
of those who should have nurtured him vnth smiles — whose 
soul, ardent and sensitive, has been made to recoil cheerlessly 
back on itself — denied the sunshine of the affections, and al- 
most forbade to hope. Suddenly, when I believed myself most 
destitute, I had awakened to fortune — to the realization of 
desires which were beyond my fondest dreams. I, whom no 
affection hitherto had blessed, had, in a moment, acquired that 
which seemed to me to comprise all others, and for which all 
others might have been profitably thrown away. 

I fancied now that henceforth my sky was to be without a 
cloud. I did not — nor did Julia imagine for a moment that any 
opposition to our love could arise from her parents. What reason 
now could they have to oppose it 'i There was no inequality in 
our social positions. My blood had taken its rise from the same 
fountains with her own. In the world’s estimation my rank was 
quite a« respectable as that of any in my uncle’s circle, and, for 
my condition, my resources, though small, were improving daily, 
and I had already attained such a place among my professional 
brethren, as to leave it no longer doubtful that it must con-tinue to 
improve. My income, with economy — such economy as two 
simple, single-minded creatures, like Julia and myself, were 
willing to employ — would already yield us a decent support. 
In short, the idea of my uncle’s opposition to the match never 
once entered my head. Yet he did oppose it. I was confound- 
ed with his blunt, and almost rugged refusal. 

“ Why, sir, what are your objections V’ 

He answered with sufficient coolness. 

“ I am sorry to refuse you, Edward, but I have already formed 
other arrangements for my daughter. I have designed her for 
another.” 

“Indeed, sir — may I ask with whom 1” 

“ Young Roberts — his father and my self have had the matter 
for some time in deliberation. But do not speak of it, Edward 
— my confidence in you, alone, induces me to state this fact,” 

“ I am very much obliged to you, cir ; — but you do not sure- 
ly mean to force young Roberts upon Julia, if she is unwil 
ling?” 

“ Ah, she will not be unwulling. She’s a dutiful child, wlio 

3 * 


58 


CONFESSION, OB THE BLIND HEART. 

will readily recognise the desires of her parents as the truest 
wisdom.” 

“ But, Mr. Clifford — you forget that Julia lias already admit- 
ted to me a preference ” 

“ So you tell me, Edward, and it is with regret that I feel 
uay^elf compelled to say that I wholly disapprove of your seek- 
ing my daughter’s consent, before you first thought proper to 
obtain mine. This seems to me very much like an abuse of con- 
fidence.” 

“ Really, sir, you surprise me more than ever. Now that you 
force me to speak, let me say that, regarding myself as of blood 
scarcely inferior to that of my cousin, I can not see how the privi- 
lege of which I availed myself in proposing for her hand, can be 
construed into a breach of confidence. I trust, sir, that you 
have not contemplated your brother’s son in any degrading or 
unbecoming attitude.” 

“ No, no, surely not, Edward; but mere equality of birth 
does not constitute a just claim, by itself, to the affections of a 
lady.” 

“ I trust the equality of birth, sir, is not impaired on my part 
by misconduct — by a want of industry, capacity — by inequal- 
ities in other respects — ” 

“ And talents !” 

He finished the sentence with the ancient sneer. But I was 
now a man — a strong one, and, at this moment particularly a 
stern one. 

“ Stop, sir,” I retorted ; “ there must be an end to this. 
Whether you accede to my application or not, sir, there is noth- 
ing to justify you in an attempt to goad and mortify my feelings. 
I have proffered to you a respectful application for the hand of 
of your daughter, and though I were poorer, and humbler, and 
less worthy in all respects than I am, I should still be entitled 
to respectful treatment. At another time, with my sensibilities 
less deeply interested than they are, I should probably submit, 
as I have already frequently submitted, to the unkind and ungen- 
erous sarcasms in which you have permitted yourself to indulge 
at my expense. But my regard for your daughter alone would 
prompt me to resent and repel them now. The object of my 
Miterview with you is quite too sacred — too solemnly invested 


DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 


59 


— to suffer me to stand silently under the scornful usage even 
of her father.” 

All this may have been deserved by Mr. Clifford, but it was 
scarcely discreet in me. It gave him the opportunity which, 
I do not doubt, he desired — the occasion which he had in 
view. It afforded him an excuse for anger, for a regular out- 
brea^~ between us, which, in some sort, yielded him that justi- 
fication for his refusal, without which he would liave found it a 
very difficult matter to account for or excuse. We parted in 
mutual anger, the effect of which was to close his doors 
against me, and exclude me from all opportunities of interview 
with Julia, unless by stealth. Even then, these opportunities 
were secured by my artifice, without her privity. As dutiful 
as fond, she urged me against them ; and, resolute to “ honor 
her father and mother” in obedience to those holy laws with- 
out a compliance with which there is little hope and no happi- 
ness, she informed me with many tears that she was now for- 
bidden to see me, and would therefore avoid every premedi- 
tated arrangement for our meeting. I did not do justice to her 
character, but reproached her with coldness — with a want of 
affection, sensibility, and feeling. 

“Do not say so, Edward — do not — do not ! I cold — I in- 
sensible — I wanting in affection for you ! How, how can you 
think so ?” And she threw herself on my bosom and sobbed 
until I began to fancy that convulsions would follow. 

We separated, finally, with assurances of mutual fidelity — 
assurances which, I knew, from the exclusiveness of all my 
feelings, my concentrative singleness of character, and entire 
dependence upon the beloved object of those affections which 
were now the sole solace of my heart, would not be difficult for 
me to keep. But I doubted her strength — her resolution — 
against the pressing solicitations of parents whom slie had never 
been accustomed to withstand. But she quieted me with that 
singular earnestness of look and manner which had once before 
impressed me previous to our mutual explanation. Like vulgar 
thinkers generally, I was apt to confound weakness of frame 
and delicacy of organization with a want of courfige and mortil 
resources of strength and consolation. 

“ Fear nothing for my truth, Edward. Though, in obedience 


60 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


to my parents, I shall not marry against their will, be sure I 
shall never marry against my own.” 

“Ah, Julia, you think so, but — ” 

“ I know so, Edward. Believe nothing that you hear against 
me or of me, which is unfavorable to my fidelity, until you hear 
it from my own lips.” 

“But you will meet me again — soon?” 

“No, no, do not ask it, Edward. We must not meet in this 
manner. It is not right. It is criminal.” 

I had soon another proof of the decisive manner in which my 
uncle seemed disposed to can’y on the war between us. Er- 
ring, like the greater number of our young men, in their ambi- 
tious desire to enter public life prematurely, I was easily per- 
suaded to become a candidate for the general assembly. I was 
now just twenty-five — at a time when young men are not yet 
released from the bias of early associations, and the unavoida- 
ble influence of guides, who are generally blind guides. Until 
thirty, there are few men who think independently ; and, until 
this habit is acquired — which, in too many cases, never is ac- 
quired — the individual is sadly out of place in the halls of 
legislation. It is this premature disposition to enter into pub- 
lic life, which is the sole origin of the numberless mistakes and 
miserable inconsistencies into which our statesmen fall ; which 
cling to their progress for ever after, preventing their perform- 
ances, and baffling them in all their hopes to secure the confi- 
dence of the people. They are broken-down political hacks in 
the prime of life, and just at the time Avhen they should be first 
entering upon the duties of the public man. Seduced, like the 
rest, as well by my own vanity as the suggestions of favoring 
friends, I permitted my name to be announced, and engaged 
actively in the canvass. Perhaps the feverish state of my mind, 
in consequence of my relations with Julia Clifford and her pa- 
rents, made me more willing to adopt a measure, about which, 
at any other time, I should have been singularly slow and cau- 
tious. As a man of proud, reserved, and suspicious temper, I 
had little or no confidence in my own strength with the people ; 
and defeat would be more mortifying than success grateful to a 
person of my pride. I fancied, however, that popular life would 
somewhat subdue the consuming passions which were rioting 


DENIAL AND DEFEAT. 


<31 


within my bosom ; and I threw myself into the thick of th .5 
struggle with all the ardor of a sanguine temperament. 

To my surprise and increased vexation^ I found my worthy 
uncle striving in every possible way, without actually declaring 
his purpose, in opposing my efforts and prospects. It is true 
he did not utter my name ; but he had formed a complete ticket, 
in which my name was not ; and he was toiling with all the 
industry of a thoroughgoing partisan in promoting its success. 
The cup which he had commended to my lips was overrunning 
with the gall of bitterness. Hostility to me seemed really to 
have been a sort of monomania with him from the first. How 
else was this wanton procedure to be accounted for 1 how, even 
with this belief, could it be excused? His conduct was cer- 
tainly one of those mysteries of idiosyncracy upon which the 
moral philosopher may speculate to doomsday without being a 
jot the wiser. 

If his desire was to baffle me, he was successful. I was de- 
feated, after a close struggle, by a meagre majority of seven 
votes in some seventeen hundred ; and the night after the elec- 
tion was declared, he gave a ball in honor of the successful 
candidates, in which his house was filled to overflowing. I 
passed the dwelling about midnight. Music rang from the illu- 
minated parlor. The merry dance proceeded. All was life, 
gayety, and rich profusion. And Julia ! even then she might 
have been whirling in the capricious movements of the dance 
with my happy rival — she as happy — unconscious of him who 
glided like some angry spectre beneath her windows, and al- 
most within hearing of her thoughtless voice. 

Such were my gloomy thoughts- such the dark and dismal 
subjects of my lonely meditations. I did the poor girl wrong. 
That night she neither sung nor danced ; and when I saw lier 
again, I was shocked at the visible alteration for the worse 
which her appearance exhibited She was now grown thin, 
almost to meagreness ; her cheeks were very wan, her lips 
whitened, and her beauty greatly faded in consequence of her 
suffering health. 

Yet, will it be believed that, in that interview, though such 
was her obvious condition, my perverse spirit found the lan- 
guage of complaint and suspicion more easy than that of devo- 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 




tioii and tenderness. I know that it would be easy, and feel 
that it would be natural, to account for and to excuse this bru- 
tality, by a reference to those provocations which I had re- 
ceived from her father. A warm temper, ardent and glowing, 
it is very safe to imagine, must reasonably become soured and 
perverse by bad treatment and continual injury. But this for 
me was no excuse. Julia was a victim also of the same treat- 
ment, and in far greater degree than myself, as she was far less 
able tb endure it. Mine, however, was the perverseness of im- 
petuous blood — unrestrained, unchecked — having a fearful 
will, an impetuous energy, and, gradually, with success and 
power, swelling to the assertion of its own unqualified dominion 
— the despotism of the blind heart. 

Julia bore my reproaches until I was ashamed of them. Her 
submission stung me, and I loved then too ardently not to ar- 
rive in time at justice, and to make atonement. Would I 
had made it sooner ! When I had finished all my reproaches 
and complainings, she answered all by telling me that the affair 
with young Roberts had been just closed, and she hoped finally, 
by her unqualified rejection of his suit, even though backed by 
all her father’s solicitations, complaints, nay, threats and anger. 
How ungenerous and unmanly, after this statement had been 
made, appeared all the bitter chidings in which I had indulged ! 
I need not say what efforts I made to atone for my precipita- 
tion and injustice ; and how easily I found forgiveness from one 
who knew not how to harbor unkindness — and if she even had 
the feeling in her bosom, entertained it as one entertains his 
deadliest foe, and expelled it as soon as its real character was 
discove-od. 


TEMPTATION, 




CHAPTER VII. 

TEMPTATION. 

Thus stood the affair between my fair cousin and myself — 
a condition of things seriously and equally affecting her health 
and my temper — when an explosion took place, of a nature 
calculated to humble my uncle and myself, if not in equal de- 
gree, or to the same attitude, at least to a most mortifying ex- 
tent in both cases. I have not stated before — indeed, it was 
not until the affair which I am now about to relate had actually 
exploded, that I was made acquainted with any of the facts 
which produced it — that, prior to my father’s death, there had 
been some large business connections between himself and my. 
uncle. In those days secret connections in business, however 
dangerous they might be in social, and more than equivocal in 
moral respects, were considered among the legitimate practices 
of tradesmen. What was the particular sort of relations exist- 
ing between my father and uncle, I am not now prej>ared to 
state, nor is it absolutely necessary to my narrative. It is 
enough for me to say that an exposure of them took place, ir 
part, in consequence of some discoveries made by my father’F 
unsatisfied creditors, by which the obscure transactions of thirty 
years were brought to light, or required to be brought to light 
and in the development of which, the fair business fame of my 
uncle was likely to be involved in a very serious degree — not 
to speak of the inevitable effects upon his resources of a disco v 
ery and proof of fraudulent concealment. The reputation of 
my father must have suffered seriously, had it not been geiier- 
ally known that he left nothing — a fact beyond dispute from 
the history of my own career, in which neither goods nor chat- 
tels, lands nor money, were suffered to enure to my advantage. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


The business was brought to me. The merchant who brought 
it, and who had been busy for some years in tracing out the 
testimony, so far as it could be procured, gave me to understand 
that he had determined to place it in my hands for two reasons : 
firstly, to enable me to release the memory of my father from 
the imputation — under any circumstances discreditable — of 
bankruptcy, by compelling my uncle to disgorge the sums 
which he had appropriated, and which, as was alleged, would 
satisfy all my father’s creditors ; and, secondly, to give me an 
opportunity of revenging my own wrongs upon one, of whose 
course of conduct toward me the populace had already seen 
enough, during the last election, to have a tolerably correct 
idea. 

I examined the papers, thanked my client for his friendly 
intentions, but declined taking charge of the case for two other 
reasons. My relations to the dead and to the living were either 
of them sufficient reasons for this determination. I communi- 
cated the grounds of action, in a respectful letter, to my uncle, 
and soon discovered, by the alarm which he displayed in con- 
sequence, that the cause of the complaint was in all probability 
good. The case belonged to the equity jurisdiction, and the 
relator soon filed his bill. 

My uncle’s tribulation may be conjectured from the fact that 
he called upon me, and seemed anxious enough to bury the 
hatchet. He wished me to take part in the proceedings — in- 
sisted, somewhat earnestly, and strove very hard to impress me 
with the conviction that my father’s memory demanded that I 
phould devote myself to the task of meeting and confounding 
■".he creditor who thus, as it were, had set to work to rake up 
the ashes of the dead ; but I answered all this very briefly and 
very dryly : — 

“ If my father has participated in this fraud, he has reaped 
none of its pleasant fruits. He lived poor, and died poor. The 
public know that ; and it will be difficult to persuade them, with 
a due knowledge of these facts, that he deliberately perpetrated 
such unprofitable villany. Besides, sir, you do not seem-to re- 
member that, if the claim of Banks, Tressell, & Sons, is good, 
it relieves my father’s memory of the only imputation that now 
lies against it — that of being a bankrupt.” 


TEMPTATION. 


'% I* 
00 

“Ay !” he cried hoarsely, “but it makes me one — me, }our 
uncle.” 

“And what reason, sir, have I to remember or to heed this 
relationship ?” I demanded sternly, with a glance beneath which 
he quailed. 

“ True, true, Edward, your reproach is a just one. I have 
not been the friend I should have been ; but — let us be friends, 
now, and hereafter — we must be friends. Mrs. Clifford is very 
anxious that it should be so — and — and — Edward,” solemnly, 
“you must help me out of this business. You must, by Heav- 
en, you must — if you would not have me blow my brains out !’’ 

The man was giving true utterance to his misery — the fruv' 
of those pregnant fears which filled his mind. 

“ I would do for you, sii, whatever is proper for me to d j, b’Y 
can not meddle in this unless you are prepared to make restitu 
tion, which I should judge to be your best course.” 

“ How can you advise me to beggar my child ? This chiioi, 
if recognised, will sweep everything. The interest alone is a 
fortune. I can not think of allowing it. I would rather die 

“ This is mere madness, Mr. Clifford ; your death would no.', 
lessen the difficulty. Hear me, sir, and face the matter man- 
fully. You must do justice. If what I understand be true, 
you have most unfortunately sufiered yourself to be blinded to 
the dishonor of the act which you have committed ; you have 
appropriated wealth which did not belong to you, and, in thus 
doing, you have subjected the memory of my father to the re- 
proach of injustice which he did not deserve. I will not add 
tlie reproach which I might with justice add, that, in thus 
wronging the father’s memory, and making it cover your own 
improper gains, you have suffered his son to want those neces- 
saries of education and sustenance, which — ” 

“ Say no more, Edward, and it shall all be amended. Listen 
to me now; but stay — close that door for a moment — there! 
— Now, look you.” 

And, having taken these precautionary steps, the infatuated 
man proceeded to admit the dishonest practices of which he 
had been guilty. His object in making the confession, how- 
ever, was not that he might make reparation. Far from it. It 
was ratlier to save from the clutch of his creditors, from tlie 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


JO 

grasp of justice, his ill-gotten possessions. I have no patience 
in revealing the schemes by v/hich this was to he effected ; but, 
as a preliminary, I was to be made the proprietor of one half 
of the sum in question, and the possessor of his daughter’s hand ; 
in return for which I was simply to share with him in the per- 
formance of certain secret acts, which, without rendering his 
virtue any more conspicuous, would have most effectually eradi- 
cated all of mine. 

“ I have listened to you, Mr. Clifford, and with great diffi- 
culty. I now distinctly decline your proposals. Not even the 
bribe, so precious in my sight, as that v/hich you have tendered 
ill the person of your daughter, has power to tempt me into 
hesitation. I will have nothing to do with you in this matter. 
Restore the property to your creditors.” 

“But, Edward, you have not heard j-— your share alone will 
be twenty odd thousand dollars, without naming the interest !” 

“ Mr. Clifford, I am sorry for yon. Doubly sorry that you 
persist in seeing this thing in an improper light. Even were I 
disposed to second your designs, it is scarcely possible, sir, that 
you could be extricated. The discovery of those papers, and 
the extreme probability that Hansford, the partner of the Eng- 
lish firm of Davis, Pierce, & Hansford, is surviving, and can be 
found, makes the probabilities strongly against you. My ad- 
vice to you, is, that you make a merit of necessity ; — that you 
endeavor to effect a compromise before the affair has gone too 
far. The creditors will make some concessions sooner than 
trust the uncertainties of a legal investigation, and whether you 
lose or gain, a legal investigation is what you should particu- 
larly desire to avoid. If you will adopt this counsel, I will act 
for you with Banks & Tressel : and if you will give me carle 
blanche^ I think I can persuade them to a private arrangement 
by which they will receive the principal in liquidation of all de- 
mands. This may be considered a very fair basis for an ar- 
rangement, since the results of the speculation could only ac- 
crue from the business capacities of the speculator, and did not 
belong to a fund which the proprietor had resolved not to ap- 
propriate, and which must therefore, have been entirely un- 
productive. I do not promise you that they will accept, but it 
is not improbable. They aie men of business — they need, at 


TEMPTATION. 


67 


this moment, particularly, an active capital ; and have had too 
much knowledge of the doubts and delays attending a pro- 
longed suit in equity, not to listen to a proposition which yields 
them the entire principal of their claim.” 

I need not repeat the arguments and entreaties by which I 
succeeded in persuading my uncle to accede to the only ar- 
rangement which could possibly have rescued him from the 
public exposure which was impending ; but he did consent, and, 
armed with his credentials, I proceeded to the office of Banks 
& Tressell, without loss of time. 

Though resolved, if I could effect the matter, that my uncle 
should liquidate their claim to the uttermost farthing which they 
required, it was my duty to make the best bargain which I 
could, in reference to his unfortunate .family. Accordingly, 
without suffering them to know that I had carte hlanche, I simply 
communicated to them my wish to have the matter arrangc«l 
without public investigation — that I was persuaded from a 
hasty review which I had given to the case, that there were 
good grounds for action; — but, at the same time, I dwelt upon 
the casualties of such a course — the possibility that the chief 
living witness — if he were living — might not be found, or 
might not survive long enough — as he was reputed to be very 
old — for the purposes of examination before the commission; 
— the long delays which belonged to a litigated suit, in which 
the details of a mixed foreign and domestic business of so many 
years was to be raked up, reviewed and explained ; and the 
further chances, in the event of final success, of the property 
of the debtor being so covered, concealed, or made away with, 
as to baffle at last all the industry and labors of the creditor. 

The merchants were men of good sense, and estimated the 
proverb — “a bird in hand is worth two in the bush” — at its 
true value. It did not require much argument to persuade 
them to receive a sum of over forty thousand dollars, and give a 
full discharge to the defendant ; and I flattered myself that the 
matter was all satisfactorily arranged, and had just taken a seat 
at my table to write to Mr. Clifford to this effect, when, to my 
horror, I receive a note from that gentleman, informing me of 
his resolve to join issue with the claimants, and “ maintain his 
rights {?) to the last moment.” He thanked me, in very cold- 


Ob CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

consequential style, for my friendly efforts” — the w jrds itali- 
cised, as I have now written it ; — but concluded with informing 
me that he had taken the opinion of older counsel, which, though 
it might bo less correct than mine, was, perhaps, more full of 
promise for his interests. 

This note justified me in calling upon the unfortunate gentle- 
man. Jt is true I had not committed him to Banks & Tressell 
— the suggestions which I had made for the arrangement were 
all proposed as a something which I might be able to bring 
about in a future conference with him — but I was too anxious 
to save him from his lamentable folly — from that miserable 
love of money, which, overreaching itself in its blindness, as 
does every passion — was not only about to deliver him to shame 
but to destitution also. 

I found him in Mrs. Clifford’s presence. That simple and 
silly woman had evidently been made privy to the whole trans- 
action, so far as my arguments had been connected with it; — 
for all the truth is not often to be got out of the man who means 
or has perpetrated a dishonesty. She had been alarmed at the 
immense loss of money, and consequently of importance, with 
which the family was threatened ; and without looking into, or 
Deing able to comprehend the facts as they stood, she had taken 
ground against any measure which should involve such a sacri- 
fice. Her influence over the weak man beside her, was never 
so clear to me as now ; and in learning to despise his character 
more than uver, I discovered, at the same time, the true source 
of many of his errors and much of his misconduct. She did 
not often suffer him to reply for himself — yielded me the ul- 
timatum from her own lips; and condescended to assure me 
that she could only ascribe the advice which I had given to her 
husband, to the hostile disposition which I had always enter- 
tained for herself and family. That I was “ a wolf in sheep’s 
clothing, she had long since been able to see, though all others 
inhappily seemed blind.” 

Here she scowled at her husband, who contented himself with 
valking to and fro, playing with his coatskirts, and feeling, no 
doubt, a portion of the shame which his miserable bondage to 
this silly woman necessarily incurred. 

■'Mr. Clifford has got a lawyer who can do for him what it 


TEMPTATION. 


t)9 

seems yon can not,” was her additional observation. “ He 
promises to get him to dry land, and save him without so much 
as wetting his shoes, though his own blood relations, who are 
thought so smart, can not, it appears, do anything.” 

Of course I could have nothing to say to the worthy lady, 
but my expostulations were freely urged to Mr. Clifford. 

“ You, at least,” said I, “ should know the risks which you 
incur by this obstinacy. Mrs. Clifford can not be expected to 
know ; and I now warn you, sir, that the case of Banks & 
Tressell is a very strong one, very well arranged, and so admi- 
rably hung together, in its several links of testimony, that, 
even the absence of old Hansford (the chief witness), should his 
answers never be obtained, would scarcely impair the integrity 
of the evidence. In a purely moral point of vieAv, nothing can 
be more complete than it is now.” 

“Well, and who would it convict, Mr. Edward Clifford?” ex- 
claimed the inveterate lady, anticipating her husband’s answer 
Avith accustomed interference ; “ who would it convict, if not 
your own father ? It was as much his business as my hus- 
band’s ; and if there’s any shame, I’m sure his memory and his 
son will have to bear their share of it ; and this makes it so 
much more wonderful to me that you should take sides against 
Mr. Clifford, Instead of standing up in his defence.” 

“ I would save him, madam, if you and he would let me,” I ex- 
claimed with some indignation. “ Yoiir reference to my father’s 
share in this transaction does not affect me, as it is very evident 
that you are not altogether acquainted with the true part Avhich 
he had in it. He had all the risk, all the loss, all the blame — 
and your husband all the profit, all the importance. He lived 
poor, and died so ; without a knowledge of those profitable re- 
sults to his brother of which the latter has made his own avails 
by leaving my father’s memory to aspersion which he did not 
deserve, and his son to destitution and reproach Avhich he 
merited as little. My father’s memory is liable to no reproach 
when every creditor knows that he died in a state of poverty, 
in which his only son has ever lived. Neither he nor I ever 
shared any of the pleasant fruits, for which w^e are yet to be 
made accountable.” 

“And whose fault was it that you didn’t get your share. 


70 


CONFESSION, OR THE BUND HEART. 

I’m sure Mr. Clifford made you as handsome an offer yesterday 
as any man could desire. Didn’t he offer you half? But I 
suppose nothing short of the whole would satisfy so ambitious 
a person.” 

“Neither the half nor the whole will serve me, madam, in 
such a business. My respect for your husband and his family 
would, of itself, have been sufficient to prevent my acceptance 
of his offer.” 

“But there was Julia, too, Edward !” said Mr. Clifford, ap- 
proaching me with a most insinuating smile. 

“ It is not yet too late,” said Mrs. Clifford, unbending a little. 
“ Take the offer of Mr. Clifford, Edward, and be one of us ; and 
then this ugly business ” 

“ Yes, my dear Edward, even now, though I have spoken 
with young Perkins about the affair, and he tells me there’s 
nothing so much to be afraid of, yet, for the look of the thing, 
I’d rather that you should be seen acting in the business. As 
it’s so well known that your father had nothing, and you norb- 
ing, it’ll then be easy for the people to believe that nothing was 
the gain of any of us; and — and ” 

“Young Perkins may think and say what he pleases, and 
you are yourself capable of judging how much respect you 
may pay to his opinion. Mine, however, remains unchanged. 
You will have to pay this money — nay, this necessity will not 
come alone. The development of all the particulars connected 
with the transaction will disgrace you for ever, and drive you 
from the community. Even were I to take part with you, I do 
not see that it would change the aspect of affairs. So far from 
your sharing with me the reputation of being profitless in the 
affair, the public would more naturally suspect that I had shared 
with you — now, if not before — and the whole amount involved 
would not seduce me to incur this imputation.” 

“ But my daughter — Julia ” 

“ Do not speak of her in this connection, I implore you, Mr. 
Clifford. Let her name remain pure, uncontaminated by any 
considerations, whether of mere gain or of the fraud which the 
gain is supposed to involve. Freely would I give the sum in 
question, were it mine, and all the wealth besides that I ever 
expect to acquire, to make Julia Clifford my wife ; — but I can 


TEMPTATION. 


71 


not suffer myself, in such a case as this, to accept her as a bribe, 
and to sanction crime. Nay, I am sure that she too would be 
the first to object.” 

“And so you really refuse? Well, the world’s coming to a 
pretty pass. But I told Mr. Clifford, months ago, that you had 
quite forgot yourself, ever since you had grown so great with 
the Edgertons, and the Blakes, and Fortescues, and all them 
high-headed people. But I’m sure, Mr. Edward Clifford, my 
daughter needn’t go a-begging to any man ; and as for this busi- 
ness, whatever you may say against young Perkins, I’ll take 
his opinion of the law against that of any other young lawyer 
in the country. He’s as good as the best, I’m thinking.” 

“ Your opinion is your own, Mrs. Clifford, but I beg to set 
you right on the subject of mine. I did not say anything 
against Mr. Perkins.” 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon ; I’m sure you did. You said he 
was nothing of a lawyer, and something more.” 

Was there ever a more perverse and evil and silly woman ! 
I contented myself with assuring her that she was mistaken 
and had very much misunderstood me — took pains to repeat 
what I had really said, and then cut short an interview that had 
been painful and humbling to me on many grounds. I left the 
happy pair tete-d-teUt in their princely parlor together, little 
fancying that there was another argument which had been 
prepared to overthrow my feeble virtue. But all this had been 
arranged by the small cunning of this really witless couple. I 
was left to find my way down stairs as I might ; and just when 
I was about to leave the dwelling — vexed to the heart at the 
desperate stolidity of the miserable man, whom avarice and 
weakness were about to expose to a loss which might be averted 
in part, and an exposure to infamy which might wholly be 
avoided — I was encountered by the attenuated form and wan 
countenance of his suffering but still lovely daughter. 


72 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LOVE FINDS NO SMOOTH WATER IN THE SEA OF LAW 

‘‘Julia!” I exclaimed, with a start which betrayed, I am 
sure, quite as much surprise as pleasure. My mood was 
singularly inflexible. My character was not easily shaken, 
and, once wrought upon by any leading influence, my mind 
preserved the tone which it acquired beneath it, long after the 
cause of provocation had been withdrawn. This earnestness of 
character — amounting to intensity — gave me an habitual stern- 
ness of look and expression, and I found it hard to acquire, of 
a sudden, that command of muscle which would permit me to 
mould the stubborn lineaments, at pleasure, to suit the moment. 
Not even where my heart was most deeply interested — thus 
aroused — could I look the feelings of the lover, which, never- 
theless, were most truly the predominant ones within my bosom. 

“Julia,” I exclaimed, “ I did not think to see you.” 

“ Ah, Edward, did you wish it ?” she replied in very mourn- 
ful accents, gently reproachful, as she suffered me to take her 
hand in mine, and lead her back to the parlor in the basement 
story. I seated her upon the sofa, and took a place at her 
side. 

“Why should I not wish to see you, Julia? What should 
lead you to fancy now that I could wish otherwise ?” 

“ Alas I” she replied, “ I know not what to think — I scarcely 
know what I say. I am very miserable. What is this they 
tell me ? Can it be true, Edward, that you are acting against 
my father — that you are trying to bring him to shame and 
poverty ?” 

I released her hand. I fixed my eyes keenly upon hers. 

“Julia, you have your instructions what to say. You are 
sent here for this. They have set you in waiting to meet me 


LOVE AND LAW. 


78 


here, and speak things which you do not understand, and assert 
things which I know you can not believe.” 

“ Edward, I believe you /” she exclaimed with emphasis, but 
with downcast eyes ; “ but it does not matter whether I was 
sent here, or sought you of my own free will. They tell mo 
other things — there is more — but I have not the heart to say 
it, and it needs not much.” 

“ If you believe me, Julia, it certainly does not need that 
you should repeat to me what is said of me by enemies, equally 
unjust to me, and hostile to themselves. Yet I can readily con- 
jecture some things which they have told you. Did they not 
tell you that your hand had been proffered me, and that I had 
refused it ]” 

She hung her head in silence. 

“ You do not answer.” 

‘ Spare me ; ask me not.” 

“ Nay, tell me, Julia, that I may see how far you hold me 
worthy of your love, your confidence. Speak to me — have 
they not told you some such story V’ 

** Something of this ; but I did not heed it, Edward.” 

“Julia — nay! — did you not?” 

“ And if I did, Edward — ” 

“ It surely was not to believe it ?” 

“No! no! no! I had no fears of you — have none, dear 
Edward ! I knew that it was not, could not be true.” 

“Julia, it was true !” 

“ Ah!” 

“ True, indeed ! There was more truth in t/ia( than in any 
other part of the story. Nay, more — had they told you all the 
truth, dearest Julia, that part, strange as it may appear, would 
have given you less pain than pleasure.” 

“ How ! Can it be so ?” 

“ Your hand was proffered me by your father, and I refused 
it. Nay, look not from me, dearest — fear not for my affection 
— fear nothing. I should have no fear that you could siip])ose 
me false to you, though the whole world should come and tell 
you so. True love is always secured by a just conridenc(i in 
the beloved object; and, without this confidence, the whole life 
is a series of long doubts, struggles, griefs, and apprehension.^, 

4 


74 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

which break down the strength, and lay the spirit in the dust. 
I will now tell you, in few words, what is the relation in which 
I stand to your father and his family. He, many years ago, 
committed an error in business, which the laws distinguish by 
a harsher name. By this error he became rich. Until recent- 
ly, the proofs of this error were unknown. They have lately 
been discovered by certain claimants, who are demanding repa- 
ration. In the difficulty of your father, he came to me. I ex- 
amined the business, and have given it as my opinion that he 
should stifle the legal process by endeavoring to make a private 
arrangement with the creditors.” 

Could he do this 

“ He could. The creditors were willing, and at first he con- 
sented that I should arrange it with them. He now rejects the 
arrangement.” 

“ But why ?” 

** Because it iuvoItss ohe biirrender of the entire amount of 
property which they claim — a sum of forty thousand dollars.” 

“But, dear Edward, is it due? — does my father owe this 
money ? If he does, surely he can not refuse. Perhaps he 
thinks that he owes nothing.” 

“Nay, Julia, unhappily he knows it, and the offer of your 
hand, and half of the sum mentioned, was made to me, on the 
express condition that I should exert my influence as a man, 
and my ingenuity as a lawyer, in baffling the creditors and sti- 
fling the claim.” 

The poor girl was silent and hung her head, her eyes fixed 
upon the carpet, and the big tears slowly gathering, dropping 
from them, one by one. Meanwhile, I explained, as tenderly 
as X could, the evil consequences which threatened Mr. Clifford 
in consequence of his contumacy. 

“Alas*” she exclaimed, “it is not his fault. He would be 
wibing — I heard him say as much last night — but mother — 
she will not consent. She refused positively the moment father 
said it would be necessary to sell out, and move to a cheaper 
House Oh, Edward, is there no way that you can save us ) 
Save my father from shame, though he gives up all the money.* 

“ Would I not do this, Julia ? Nay, were I owner of the neces- 
sary amount myself, believe me, it should not be withheld.” 


LOVE AND LAW. 


TT) 

“ 1 do believe you, Edward ; but” — and here her voice funk 
to a whisper — “you must try again, try again and again — for 
I think that father knows the danger, though mother docs not ; 
and I think — I hope — he will be firm enough, when you press 
him, and warn him of the danger, to do as you wish him.” 

“ I am afraid not, Julia. Your mother — ” 

“Do not fear ; hope — hope all, dear Edward; for, to confess 
to you, I know that they are anxious to have your support — 
they said as much. Nay, why should I hide anything from 
you] They sent me here to see — to speak with you, and — ” 
“To see what your charms could do to persuade me to be a 
villain. Julia! Julia! did you think to do thia — to have me 
be the thing which they would make me 

“No! no! — Heaven forbid, dear Edward, that you should 
fancy that any such desire had a place, even for a moment, in 
my mind. No ! I knew not that the case involved any but 
mere money considerations. I knew not that — ” 

“Enough! Say no more, Julia! I do not think that you 
w%uld counsel me to my own shame.” 

“ No ! no ! You do me only justice. But, Edward, you will 
save my father ! You will try — you will see him again — ” 

“ What ! to suffer again the open . scorn, the declared doubts 
of my friendship and integrity, which is the constant language 
of your mother ? Can it be that you would desire that I should 
do this — nay, seek it?” 

“For my poor father’s sake !” she cried, gaspingly. 

But I shook my head sternly. 

“ For mine, then — for mine ! for mine !” 

She threw herself into my arms, and clung to me until I 
promised all that she required. And as I promised her, so I 
strove with her father. I used every argument, resorted to ev- 
ery mode of persuasion, but all was of no avail. Mr. Clifford 
was under the rigid, the iron government of his fate ! His 
wife was one of those miserably silly women — born, according 
to lago — 

“ To suckle fools and chronicle small beei^’ — 

who, raised to the sudden control of unexpected wealth, be- 
comes insane upon it, and is blind, deaf, and dumb, to all coun- 


7b CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

sel or reason which suggests the possibility of its loss. From 
the very moment when Mr. Clifford spoke of selling out house, 
horses, and carriage, as the inevitable result which must follow 
his adoption of my recommendation, she declared herself against 
it at all hazards, particularly when her husband assured her that 
the glorious uncertainties of the law” afforded a possibility of 
his escape with less loss. The loss of money was, with her, the 
item of most consideration ; her mind was totally insensible to 
that of reputation. She was willing to make this compromise 
with me, as a sort of alternative, for, in that case, there would 
be no diminution of attendance and expense — no loss of rank 
and equipage. We should all live together — how harmoni- 
ously, one may imagine — but the grandeur and the state would 
still be intact and unimpaired. Even for this, however, she 
was not prepared, when she discovered that there was no cer- 
tainty that my alliance would bring immunity to her husband. 
IIow this notion got even partially into his head, I know not ; 
unless in consequence of a growing imbecility of intellect, which 
in a short time after betrayed itself more strikingly. But of 
this in its own place. 

My attempts to convince my unfortunate uncle were all ren- 
dered unavailing, and shown to be so to Julia herself in a very 
short time afterward. The insolence of Mrs. Clifford, when I 
did seek an interview with her husband, was so offensive and 
unqualified, that Julia herself, with a degree of indignation 
which she could not entirely suppress, begged me to quit the 
house, and relieve myself from such undeserved insult and 
abuse. I did so, but with no unfriendly wishes for the wretch- 
ed woman who presided over its destinies, and the no less 
vrretched husband whom she helped to make so ; and my place 
as consulting friend and counsellor was soon supplied by Mr. 
Perkins — one of those young barristers, to be found in every 
community, who regard the “ penny fee” as the si?ie qua noTiy 
and obey implicitly the injunction of the scoundrel in the play : 
“Make money— honestly if you can, but — make money!” 
He was one of those creatures w'ho set people at loggerheads, 
goad foolish and petulant clients into lawsuits, stir up commo- 
tions in little sets, and invariably comfort the suit-bringer with 
the most satisfactory assurances of success. Tt was the confi* 


LOVE AND LAW. 


( I 

dent assurances of this person which had determined Mr. Clif- 
ford — his wife rather — to resist to the last the suit in question. 
Through the sheer force of impudence, this man had obtained a 
tolerable share of practice. His clients, as may be supposed, 
lay chiefly among such persons as, having no power or standard 
for judging, necessarily look upon him who is most bold and 
pushing as the most able and trustworthy. The bullies of the 
law — and, unhappily , the profession nas quite too many — are 
very commanding persons among the multitude. Mr. Clifford 
knew this fellow’s mental reputation very well, and was not 
deceived by the confidence of his assurances; nay, to the last, 
he showed a hankering desire to give me the entire control of 
the subject ; but the hostility of Mrs. Clifford overruled his more 
prudent if not more honorable purposes ; and, as he was com- 
pelled to seek a lawyer, the questionable moral standing of 
Perkins decided his choice. He wished one, in short, to do a 
certain piece of dirty work ; and, as if in anticipation of the 
future, he dreaded to unfold the case to any of the veterans, the 
old-time gentlemen and worthies of the bar. I proposed this to 
him. I offered to make a supposititious relation of the facts for 
the opinion of Mr. Edgerton and others — nay, pledged myself 
to procure a confidential consultation — anything, sooner than 
that he should resort to a mode of extrication which, I assured 
him, would only the more deeply involve him in the meshes of 
disgrace and loss. But there was a fatality about this gentle- 
man — a doom that would not be baffled, and could not be 
.stayed. The wilful mind always precipitates itself down the 
abyss ; and, whether acting by his own, or under the influence 
of another’s judgment, such was, most certainly, the case vdth 
him. He was not to be saved. Mr. Perkins was regularly in- 
stalled as his defender — his counsellor, private and p-ublic — 
and I was compelled, though with humiliating reluctance, to 
admit to the plaintiffs. Banks & Tressell, that there was no 
longer any hope of compromise. The issue on which hung 
equally his fortune and his reputation was insanely challenged 
by my undo. 


78 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


C HAPTER IX. 

DLELLO. 

But my share in the troubles of this affair was not to end, 
though I was no longer my uncle’s counsellor. An event now 
took place which gave th« proceedings a new and not less un- 
pleasing aspect than they had worn before. Mrs. Clifford, it 
appears, in her communications to her husband’s lawyer, did 
not confine herself to the mere business of the lawsuit. Her 
voluminous discourse involved her opinions of her neighbors, 
friends, and relatives ; and, one day, a few weeks after, I was 
suddenly surprised by a visit from a gentleman — one of the 
members of the bar — who placed a letter in my hands from Mr. 
Perkins. I read this billet with no small astonishment. It 
briefly stated that certain reports had reached his ears, that I 
had expressed myself contemptuously of his abilities and char- 
acter, and concluded with an explicit demand, not for an expla- 
nation, but an apology. My answer was immediate. 

“ You will do me the favor to say, Mr. Carter, that Mr. Per- 
kins has been misinformed. I never uttered anything in my 
life which could disparage either his moral or legal reputation.” 

“ I am sorry to say, Mr. Clifford,” was the reply, “ that de- 
nial is unnecessary, and can not be received. Mr. Perkins has 
his information from the lips of a lady ; and, as a lady is not 
responsible, she can not be allowed to err. I am required, sii 
to insist on an apology. I have already framed it, and it 
only needs your signature.” 

He drew a short, folded letter, from his pocket, and placed it 
before me. There was so much cool impertinence in this pro- 
ceeding, and in the fellow’s manner, that I could with difficulty 
refrain from flinging the paper in his face. He was one of the 
little and vulgar clique of which Perkins was a sort of centre. 


DUELLO. 


79 


Tlie whole set were conscious enough of tlie low estimate 
which was put upon them by the gentlemen of the bar. Denied 
caste, they were disposed to force their way to recognition by 
the bully’s process, and stung by some recent discouragements, 
Mr. Perkins was, perhaps, rather glad than otherwise, of the 
silly, and no less malicious than silly, tattle of Mrs. Clifford 
for I did not doubt that the gross perversion of the truth which 
formed the basis of his note, had originated with her, which en- 
abled him to single out a victim, who, as the times went, had 
suddenly risen to a comparative elevation which is not often 
accorded to a young beginner. I readily conjectured his object 
from his character and that of the man he sent. My own na- 
ture was passionate ; and the rude school through which my 
boyhood had gone, had made me as tenacious of my position as 
the grave. That I should be chafed by reptiles such as these, 
stung me to vexation ; and though I kept from any violence 
of action, my words did not lack of it. 

“ Mr. Perkins is, permit me to say, a very impertinent fel- 
low ; and, if you please, our conference will cease from this 
moment.” 

He was a little astounded — rose, and then recovering him- 
self, proceeded to reply with the air of a veteran martinet. 

“ I am glad, sir, that you give me an opportunity of proceed- 
ing with this business without delay. My friend, Mr. Perkins, 
prepared me for some such answer. Oblige me, sir, by readijig 
this paper.” He handed me the challenge for which his pre- 
liminaries had prepared me. 

“ Accepted, sir ; I will send my friend to you in the course 
of the morning.” 

As I uttered this reply, I bowed and waved him to the door. 
He did not answer, other than by a bow, and took his depart- 
ure. The promptness which I had shown impressed him with 
respect. Baffled, in his first spring, the bully, like the tiger, is 
very apt to slink back to his jungle. His departure gave me a 
brief opportunity for reflection, in which I slightly turned over 
in my mind the arguments for and against duelling. But these 
were now too late — even were they to decide me against the 
practice — to aftect the present transaction; and I sallied out to 
seek a friend — a friend 1 


80 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

Here was the first difficulty. I had precious little choice 
among friends. My temper was not one calculated to make or 
keep friends. My earnestness of character, and intensity of 
mood, made me dictatorial ; and where self-esteem is a large 
and active development, as it must be in an old aristocratic com- 
munity, such qualities are continually provoking popular hos- 
tility. My friends, too, were not of the kind to whom such 
scrapes as the present were congenial. I was unwilling to go 
to young Edgerton, as I did not wish to annoy his parents by 
my novel anxieties. But where else could I turn? To him I 
went. When he heard my story, he began by endeavoring to 
dissuade me from the meeting. 

“ I am pledged to it, William,” was my only answer. 

“ But, Edward, I am opposed to duelling myself, and should 
not promote or encourage, in another, a practice which I would 
not be willing myself to adopt.” 

“ A good and sufficient reason, William. You certainly should 
not. I will go to Frank Kingsley.” 

“ He will serve you, I know ; but, Edward, this duelling is 
a bad business. It does no sort of good. Kill Perkins, and it 
does not prove to him, even if he were then able to hear, that 
Mrs. Clifford spoke a falsehood ; and if he kills you, you are 
even still farther from convincing him. 

I have no such desire, William ; and your argument, by 
the way, is one of those beggings of the question which the 
opponents of duelling continually fall into when discussing the 
subject. The object of the man, who, in a case like mine, 
fights a duel, is not to prove his truth, but to protect himself 
from persecution. Perkins seeks to bully and drive me out of 
the community. Public opinion here approves of this mode of 
protecting one’s self; — nay, if I do not avail myself of its 
agency, the same public opinion would assist my assailant in 
ray expulsion. I fight on the same ground that a nation fights 
when it goes to war. It is the most obvious and easy mode to 
protect myself from injury and insult. So long as I submit, 
Perkins will insult and bully, and the city will encourage him. 
If I resist, I silence this fellow, and perhaps protect other 
young beginners. I have not the most distant idea of con- 
vincing him of my truth by fighting him — nay, the idea of 


DUELLO. 


81 


giving him satisfaction is an idea that never entered my brain. 
I simply take a popular mode of seeming myself from outrage 
and persecution.” 

“ But, do you secure yourself? Has duelling this i^esult?” 

“ Not invariably, perhaps ; simply because the condition of 
humanity does not recognise invariable results. If it is shown 
to be the probable, the frequent result, it is all that can be ex- 
pected of any human agency or law.” 

“ But, is it probable — frequent?” 

“ Yes, almost certain, almost invariable. Look at the general 
manners, the deportment, the forbearance, of all communities 
where duelling is, recognised as an agent of society. See the 
superior deference paid to females, the unfrequency of bully- 
ing, the absence of blackguarding, the higher tone of the 
public press, and of society in general, from which the public 
press takes its tone, and which it represents in our country, but 
does not often inform. Even seduction is a rare offence, and a 
matter of general exclamation, where this extra-judicial agent 
is recognised.” 

And so forth. It is not necessary to repeat our discussion of 
this vexed question, of its uses and abuses. I did not succeed 
in convincing him, and, under existing circumstances, it is not 
reasonable to imagine that his arguments had any influence 
over me. To Frank Kingsley I went, and found him in better 
mood to take up the cudgels, and even make my cause his own. 
He was one of those ardent bloods, who liked nothing better 
than the excitement of such an affair ; whether as principal or 
assistant, it mattered little. To him I expressed my wish that 
hi? arrangements should bring the matter to an issue, if possible, 
within the next twenty four hours. 

“ Prime !” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “ That’s what 
I like. If you shoot as quickly now, and as much to the point, 
you may count any button on Perkins’s coat.” 

He proceeded to confer with the friend of my opponent, 
while, with a meditative mind, I went to my office, necessarily 
oppressed with the strange feelings belonging to my situation. 
In less than two hours after Kingsley brought me the carte, by 
which I found that the meeting w^as to take place two miles out 

4 * 


82 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


of town, by snnrise the day after the one ensuing — the weap- 
ons, pistols — distance, as customary, ten paces! 

“ You are a shot, of course said Kingsley. 

My answer, in the negative, astonished him. 

“ Why, you will have little or no time for practice.” 

“ I do not intend it. My object is not to kill this man ; but 
to make him and all others see that the dread of what may be 
done, either by him or them, will never reconcile me to submit 
to injury or insult. I shall as effectually secure this object by 
going out, as I do, without preparation, as if I were the best 
shot in America. He does not know that I am not ; and. a 
pistol is always a source of danger when in the grasp of a deter- 
mined man.” 

“ You are a queer fellow in your notions, Olififord, and I can 
not say that I altogether understand you ; but you must cer- 
tainly ride out with me this afternoon, and bark a tree. It will 
do no hurt to a determined man to be a skilful one also.” 

“ I see no use in it.” 

“ Why — what if you should wish to wing him ?” 

“ I think I can do it without practice. But I have no such 
desire.” 

“ Really you are unnecessarily magnanimous. You may be 
put to it, however. Should the first shot be ineffectual and he 
should demand a second, would you throw away that also ?” 

“ No ! I should then try to shoot him. As my simple aim is 
to secure myself from persecution, which is usually the most 
effectual mode of destroying a young man in this country, I 
should resort only to such a course as would be likely to yield 
me this security. That failing, I should employ stronger 
measures ; precisely as a nation would do in a similar conflict 
with another nation. One must not suffer himself to be de- 
stroyed or driven into exile. This is the first law of nature — 
this of self-preservation. In maintaining this law, a man must 
do any or all things which in his deliberate judgment, will be 
effectual for the end proposed. Were I fighting with savages, 
for example, and knew that they regarded their scalps with 
more reverence than their lives, I should certainly scalp as well 
as slay.” 

^ They would call that barbarous V' 


DUELLO. 


83 


•*Ay, no donbt; particuLirly in tliose countries wliere they 
paid from five to fifty, and even one hundred pounds to one In- 
dian for the scalp of his brother, until they rid themselves of 
both. But see you not that the scalping process, as it produces 
the most terror and annoyance, is decidedly the most merciful, 
as being most likely to discourage and deter from war. If the 
scalu could bo taken from the head of every Seminole shot 
down, be sure the survivors never after would have come with- 
in range of rifle-shot.” 

But these discussions gave way to the business before me. 
KLingsley left me to myself, and though sad and serious with op- 
pressive thoughts, I still had enough of the old habits, dominant 
with me, to go to my daily concerns, and arrange ray papers 
with considerable industry and customary method. My profes- 
sional business, was set in order, and Edgerton duly initiated in 
the knowledge of all such portions as needed explanation. 
This done, I sat down and wrote a long farewell letter to Julia, 
and one, more brief, but renewing the counsel I had previously 
given to her father, in respect to the suit against him. These 
letters were so disposed as to be sent in the event of my falling 
in the fight. The interval which followed was not so easy to 
be borne. Conscience and reflection were equally busy, and 
unpleasantly so. I longed for the time of action which should 
silence these unpleasant monitors. 

The brief space of twenty-four hours was soon overpassed, 
and my anxieties ceased as the moment for the meeting with 
my enemy, drew nigh. My friend called at my lodgings a 
good hour before daylight — it was a point of credit with him 
that we should not delay the opposite party the sixtieth part 
of a second. We drove out into the country in a close carriage, 
taking a surgeon — who was a friend of Kingsley — along with 
us. We were on the gi'ound in due season, and some little time 
before our customers. But they did not fail or delay us. They 
were there with sufficient promptitude. 

Perkins was a man of coolness and courage. He took his 
position with admirable nonchalance ; but I observed, when his 
eyes met mine, that they were darkened with a scowl of anger. 
His brows were contracted, and his face which was ordinarily 
red, had an increased flush upon it which betrayed unusual ex- 


84 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

citemeiit. He evidently regarded me witli feelings of bitter 
animosity. Perhaps this was natural enough, if he believed the 
story of Mrs. Clifford — and my scornful answer to his friend, 
Mr. Carter, was not calculated to lessen the soreness. For my 
part, I am free to declare, I had not the smallest sentiment of 
unkindness toward the fellow. I thought little of him, but did 
not hate — I could not have hated him. I had no wish to do 
him hurt ; and, as already stated, only went out to put a stoo 
to the further annoyances of insolents and bullies, by the only 
effectual mode — precisely as I should have used a bludgeon 
over his head, in the event of a personal assault upon me. Of 
course, I had no jjurpose to do him any injury, unless with the 
view to my oAvn safety. I resolved secretly to throw away my 
fire. Kingsley suspected me of some such intention, and ear- 
nestly protested against it. 

“ I should not place you at all,” he said, “ if I fancied you 

could do a thing so d d foolish. The felloAv intends to 

shoot you if he can. Help him to a share of the same sauce.” 

T nodded as he proceeded to his arrangements. Here some 
conference ensued between the seconds : — 

“ Mr. Carter was very sorry that such a business must pro- 
ceed. Was it yet too late to rectify mistakes ? Might not the 
matter be adjusted ?” 

Kingsley, on such occasions, the very prince of punctilio, 
agreed that the matter was a very lamentable one — to be re- 
gretted, and so forth — but of the necessity of the thing, he, 
Mr. Carter, for his principal, must be the only judge. 

“ Mr. Carter could answer for his friend, Mr. Perkins, that he 
was always accessible to reason.” 

‘ Mr. Kingsley never knew a man more so than his principal.” 

“ May we not reconcile the parties ?” demanded Mr. Carter. 

•' Hoes Mr. Perkins withdraw his message ?” answered Kings- 
ley by another question. 

“ He would do so, readily, were there any prospect of adjust- 
ting the matter upon an honorable footing.” 

“ Mr. Carter will be pleased to name the basis for what he 
esteems an honorable adjustment.” 

Mr. Perkins withdraws his challenge.” 

We have no objection to that.” 


DUELLO. 


85 


“ He substitutes a courteous requisition upon Mr. Clifford for 
an explanation of certain language, supposed to be offensive, 
made to a lady.*’ 

“ Mr. Clifford denies, without qualification, the employment 
of any such language.” 

“This throws us back on our old ground,” said Carter — 
“ there is a lady in question — ” 

“ Who can not certainly be brought into the controversy,” 
said Kingsley — “ I see no other remedy, Mr. Carter, but that 
we should place the parties. We are here to answer to your 
final summons.” 

“ V ery good, sir ; this matter, and what happens, must lie at your 
door. You are peremptory. I trust you have provided a surgeon.” 

“ His services are at your need, sir,” replied Kingsley with 
military courtesy. 

“I thank you, sir — my remark had reference to your own 
necessity. Shall we toss up for the word ?” 

These preliminaries were soon adjusted. The word fell to 
Carter, and thus gave an advantage to Perkins, as his ear was 
more familiar than mine with the accents of his friend. We 
were placed, and the pistol put into my hands, without my ut- 
tering a sentence. 

“ Coolly now, my dear fellow,” said Kingsley in a whisper, 
as he withdrew from my side ; — “ wing him at least — but don’t 
bum powder for nothing.” 

Scarcely the lapse of a moment followed, when I heard the 
words “ one,” “ two,” “ three,” in tolerably rapid succession, 
and, at the utterance of the last, I pulled trigger. My antag- 
onist had done so at the first. His eye was fixed upon mine 
with deliberate malignity — that I clearly saw — but it did not 
affect my shot. This, I purposely threw away. The skill of 
my enemy did not correspondend with his evident desires. I 
was hurt, but very slightly. His bullet merely raised the skin 
upon the fleshy part of my right thigh. We kept our places 
while a conference ensued between the two seconds. Mr. Per- 
kins, through his friend, declared himself unsatisfied unless I 
apologized, or — in less unpleasant language — explained. This 
demand was answered by Kingsley with cavalier indifference 
He came to me with a second pistol. His good-humored visage 
was now slightly ruffled. 


86 


CONFESSION, OK THE BLIND HEART. 


Clifford !” said he, as he put the weapon into my hand, 
“ you must trifle no longer. This fellow abuses your generosity. 
He knows, as well as I, that you threw away your fire ; and 
he will play the same game with you, on the same terms, for a 
month together, Sundays not excepted. I am not willing to 
stand by and see you risk your life in this manner ; and, unless 
you tell me that you will give him as good as he sends, I leave 
you on the spot. Will you take aim this time V* 

“I will!” 

“ You promise me then 

«I do!” 

I was conscious of the increased activity of my organ of 
destructiveness as I said these words. I smiled with a feeling 
of pleasant bitterness — that spicy sort of malice which you may 
sometimes rouse in the bosom of the best-natured man in the 
world, by an attempt to do him injustice. The wound I had 
received, though very trifling, had no little to do with this de- 
termination. It was not unlike such a wound as would be 
made by a smart stroke of a whip, and the effect upon my blood 
was pretty much as if it had been inflicted by some such instru- 
ment. I was stung and irritated by it, and the pertinacity of 
my enemy, particularly as he must have seen that my shot was 
thrown away, decided me to punish him if I could. I did so ! 
I was not conscious that I was hurt myself, until I saw him fal- 
ling! — I then felt a heavy and numbing sensation in the same 
thigh which had been touched before. A faintness relieved me 
from present sensibility, and when I became conscious, I found 
myself in the carriage, supported by Kingsley and the surgeon, 
on my way to my lodgings. My wound was a flesh wound 
only ; the ball was soon extracted, and in a few weeks after, I 
was enabled to move about with scarcely a feeling of incon- 
venience. My opponent suffered a much heavier penalty. The 
bone of his leg was fractured, and it was several months before 
he was considered perfectly safe. The lesson he got made him 
a sorer and shorter — a wiser, if not a better man ; but as I do 
not now, and did not then, charge myself with the task of 
bringing about his moral improvement, it is not incumbent upon 
me to say anything further on this subject. We will leave him 
to get better as he may 


HEAD WINDS. 


HJ 


CHAPTER X. 

HEAD WINDS. 

The hurts of Perkins did not, unhappily, delay the progress 
of my iincle to that destruction to which his silly wife and 
knavish lawyer had destined him. His business was brought 
before the court by the claimants, Messrs. Banks & Tressell ; 
and a brief period only was left him for putting in his answer. 
When I thought of Julia, I resolved, in spite of all previous 
difficulties — the sneers of the father, and the more direct, coarse 
insults of the mother — to make one more effort to rescue him 
from the fate which threatened him. I felt sure that, for the 
reasons already given, the merchants would still be willing to 
effect a compromise which would secure them the principal of 
their claim, without incurring the delay and risk of litigation. 
Accordingly, I penned a note to Mr. Clifford, requesting permis- 
sion to wait upon him at home, at a stated hour. To this I re- 
ceived a cold, brief answer, covering the permission which I 
sought. I went, but might as well have spared myself the labor 
and annoyance of this visit. Mrs. Clifford was still in the as- 
cendant — still deaf to reason, and utterly blind to the base 
position into which her meddlesome interference in the business 
threw her husband. She had her answer ready ; and did not 
merely content herself with rejecting my overtures, but pro 
ceeded to speak in the language of one who really regarded ms 
as busily seeking, by covert ways, to effect the ruin of her 
family. Her looks and language equally expressed the indig- 
nation of a mind perfectly convinced of the fraudulent and evii 
purposes of the person she addressed. Those of my uncle were 
scarcely less offensive. A grin of malicious self-gratulation 
mantled his lips as he thanked me for my counsel, which, h« 


88 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


yet remarked, “ however wise and good, and well-intended, he 
did not think it advisable to adopt. He had every confidence 
in the judgment of Mr. Perkins, who, though without the great 
legal knowledge of some of his youthful neighbors, had enough 
for his purposes ; and had persuaded him to see the matter in a 
very different point of view from that in which I was pleased 
to regard it.’’ 

There was no doing anything with or for these people. The 
fiat for their overthrow had evidently been issued. The fatuity 
which leads to self-destruction was fixed upon them ; and, with 
a feeling rather of commiseration than anger, I prepared to 
leave the house. In this interview, I made a discovery, which 
tended still more to lessen the hostility I might otherwise have 
felt townrd my uncle. I was constrained to perceive that ho 
labored under an intellectual feebleness and incertitude which 
disconcerted his expression, left his thoughts seemingly without 
purpose, and altogether convinced me that, if not positively 
imbecile in mind and memory, there were yet some ugly symp- 
toms of incapacity growing upon him which might one day 
result in the loss of both. I had always known him to be a 
weak-minded man, disposed to vanity and caprice, but the weak- 
ness had expanded very much in a brief period, and now pre- 
sented itself to my view in sundry very salient aspects. It 
was easy now to divert his attention from the business which 
he had in hand — a single casual remark of courtesy or obser- 
vation would have this effect — and then his mind wandered 
T’-am the subject with all the levity and caprice of a thoughtless 
damsel. He seemed to entertain now no sort of apprehension 
of his legal difficulties, and spoke of them as topics already ad- 
justed Nay, for that matter, he seemed to have no serious 
sense of any subject, whatever might be its personal or general 
interest ; but, passing from point to point, exhibited that insta- 
bility of mental vision which may not inaptly be compared to 
that wandering glance which is usually supposed to distinguish 
and denote, in the physical eye, the presence of insanity. It 
was not often now that he indulged, while speaking to me, in 
that manner of hostility — those sneers and sarcastic remarks 
-—which had bien his common habit. This was another proof 
of the change which his mental man had undergone. It was 


HEAD WINDS. 


89 


not that he was more prudent or more tolerant than before. 
He was quite as little disposed to be generous toward me. But 
he now appeared wholly incapable of that degree of intellectual 
concentration which could enable him to examine a subject to 
its close. He would begin to talk with me seriously enough, 
and with a due solemnity, about the suit against him ; but, in a 
tangent, he would dart off to the consideration of some trifle, 
some household matter, or petty affair, of which, at any other 
time, he must have known that his hearers had no wish to hear. 
Poor Julia confirmed the conjectures which I entertained, but 
did not utter, by telling me that her father had changed very 
much in his ways ever since this business had been begun. 

“ Mother does not see it, but he is no longer the same man. 
Oh, Edward, I sometimes think he’s even growing childish.” 

The fear was a well-founded one. Before the case was tried, 
Mr. Clifford was generally regarded, among those who knew 
him intimately, as little better than an imbecile ; and so rapid 
was the progress of his infirmity, that when the judgment was 
given, as it was, against him, he was wholly unable to under- 
stand or fear its import. His own sense of guilt had antici- 
pated its effects, and his intense vanity was saved from public 
shame only by the substitution of public pity. The decree of 
the court gave all that was asked ; and the handsome compe- 
tence of the Cliffords was exchanged for a miserable pittance, 
which enabled the family to live only in the very humblest 
manner. 

It will readily be conjectured, from what I have stated in 
respect to myself, that mine was not the disposition to seek 
revenge, or find cause for exultation in these deplorable events. 
I had no hostility against my unhappy uncle ; I should have 
scorned myself if I had. If such a feeling ever filled my boson.-, 
it would have been most effectually disarmed by the sight ol 
the wretched old man, a grinning, gibbering idict, half-dancing 
and half-shivering from the cold, over the remnants of a miser - 
able and scant fire in the severest evening in November. I’C 
was when the affair was all over ; when the property of the 
family was all in the hands of the sheriff; when the mischiev' 
ous counsel of such a person as Jonathan Perkins, Esquire 
could do no more harm even to so foolish a person as my uncle'.^ 


90 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


wife ; aud when his presence, naturally enough withdrawn from 
a family from which he could derive no further profit, and 
which he had helped to ruin, was no longer likely to offend 
mine by meeting him there — that I proceeded to renew my 
direct intercourse with the unfortunate people whom I was not 
suffered to save. 

The reader is not to suppose that I had kept myself entirely 
aloof from the family until these disasters had happened. I 
sought Julia when occasion offered, and, though she refused it, 
tendered my services and my means whenever they might be 
bestowed with hope of good. And now, when all was over, 
and I met her at the door, and she sank upon my bosom, and 
wept in my embrace, still less than ever was I disposed to show 
to her mother the natural triumph of a sagacity which had 
shown itself at the expense of hers. I forgot, in the first glance 
of my uncle, all his folly and unkindness. He was now a shadow, 
and the mental wreck was one of the most deplorable, as it was 
one of the most rapid and complete, that could be imagined. 
In less than seven months, a strong man — strong in health — 
strong, as supposed, in intellect — singularly acute in his deal- 
ings among tradesmen — regarded by them as one of the most 
shrewd in the fraternity — vain of his parts, of his family, and 
of his fortune — solicitous of display, and constant in its indul- 
gence ! — that such a man should be stricken down to imbecility 
and idiotism — a meagre skeleton in form — pale, puny, timid 
— crouching by the fireplace — grinning with stealthy looks, 
momently cast around him — and playing — his most constant 
employment — with the bellows-strings that hung beside him, 
or the little kitten, that, delighted with new consideration, had 
learned to take her place constantly at his feet! What a 
wreck I 

But the moral man had been wrecked before, or this could 
not have been. It was only because of his guilt — of its expo- 
sure rather — that he sunk. In striving to shake off the op- 
pressive burden, he shook off the intellect which had been com- 
pelled chiefly to endure it. The sense of shame, the conviction 
of loss, and, possibly, other causes of conscience which lay yet 
deeper — for the progeny of crime is most frequently a litter as 
numerous as a whelp’s puppies — helped to crush the mind 


HEAD WINDS. 


91 


which was neither strong enough to resist temptation at first, 
nor to hear exposure at last. I turned away with a tear, which 
I could not suppress, from the wretched spectacle. But 1 coufc 
have borne with more patience to behold this ruin, than to sub- 
due the rising reproach which I felt as I turned to encounter 
Mrs. OlifFord. 

This weak woman, still weak, received me coldly, and I could 
see in her looks that she regarded me as one whom it was natu- 
ral to suppose would feel some exultation at beholding their down- 
fall. I saw this, but determined to say nothing, in the attempt to 
undo these impressions. I knew that time was the best teacher 
in all such matters, and resolved that my deportment should 
gradually make her wiser on the subject of that nature which 
she had so frequently abused, and which, I well knew, slio 
could never understand. But this hope I soon discovered to 
be unavailing. Her disaster had only soured, not subdued her ; 
and, with the natural tendency of the vulgar mind, she seemed 
to regard me as the person to whom she should ascribe all her 
misfortunes. As, to her narrow intellect, it seemed natural 
that I should exult in the accomplishment of my predictions, so 
it was a process equally natural that she should couple me Avith 
their occurrence ; and, indeed, I was too nearly connected with 
the event, through the medium of my unconscious father, not 
to feel some portion of the affliction on his account also ; though 
neither his memory nor my reputation suffered from the devel- 
opment of the affair in the community where we lived. 

Mrs. Clifford did not openly, or in words, betray the feelings 
which were striving in her soul ; but the general restraint Avhich 
she put upon herself in my presence, the acerbity of her tone, 
manner, and language, to poor Julia, and the unvaried queru- 
lousness of her remarks, were sufficient to apprize me of the 
spite which she would have willingly bestowed upon myself, 
had she any tolerable occasion for doing so. A few weeks 
served still further to humble the conceit and insolence of the 
unfortunate woman. The affair turned out much more seriously 
than I expected. A sudden fall in the value of real and per- 
sonal estate, just about the time when the sheriff’s sale took 
place, rendered necessary a second levy, which swept the miS' 
erable remnant of Mr. Clifford’s fortune, leaving nothing to my 


92 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


uncle but a small estate which had been secured by settlement 
to Mrs. Clifford and her daughter, and which the sheriff could 
not legally lay hands on. 

I came forv/ard at this juncture, and, having allowed them to 
remove into the small tenement to which, in their reduced con- 
dition they found it prudent to retire, I requested a private inter- 
view with Mrs. Clifford, and readily obtained it. 

I was received by the good lady in apparent state. All the 
little furniture which she could save from the former, w^as trans- 
ferred very inappropriately to the present dwelling-house. The 
one was quite unsuited to the other. The massive damask cur- 
tains accorded badly with the little windows over which they 
were now suspended, and the sofa, ten feet in length, occupied 
an unreasonable share of an apartment twelve by sixteen. The 
dais of piled cushions, on which so many fashionable groups had 
lounged in better times, now seemed a mountain, which begot 
ideas of labor, difficulty, and up-hill employment, rather than 
ease, as the eye beheld it cumbering two thirds of the miserable 
area into which it was so untastefully compressed. These, and 
other articles of splendor and luxury, if sold, would have yielded 
her the means to buy furniture more suitable to her circumstances 
and situation, and left her with some additional resources to meet 
the daily and sometimes pressing exigencies of life. 

The appearance of this parlor argued little in behalf of 
the salutary effect which such reverses might be expected 
to produce in a mind even tolerably sensible. They argued, 
1 fancied, as unfavorably for my suit as for the humility of 
the lady whom I was about to meet. If the parlor of Mrs. 
Clifford bore such sufficient tokens of her weakness of in- 
tellect, her own costume betrayed still more. She had made her 
person a sort of frame or rack upon which she hung every par- 
ticle of that ostentatious drapery which she was in the habit of 
w earing at her fashionable evenings. A year’s income was para- 
ded upon her back, and the trumpery j ewels of three generations 
fovTnd a place on every part of her person where it is usual for 
fashionable folly to display such gewgaws. She sailed into the 
room in a style that brought to my mind instantly the description 
which Milton gives of the approach of Delilah to Samson, after 
the first days of his blind captivity : — 


HEAD WINDS. 


93 


But who is this, what thing of sea or land ? — 

^ Female of sex it seems — 

That so bedecked, ornate and gay. 

Comes this way sailing, like a stately ship 
Of Tarsus, bound for the isles 
Of Javan or Gadire, 

With all her bravery on and tackle trim. 

Sails filled, and streamers waving. 

Courted by all the winds that hold their play, 

An amber ocent of odorous perfume 
Her harbinger !” 

No description could have been more just and literal in the case 
of Mrs. Clifford. I could scarce believe my eyes ; and when 
forced to do so, I could scarcely suppose that this bravery was 
intended for my eyes only. Nor was it ; — but let me not antici- 
pate. This spectacle, I need not say, sobered me entirely, if any- 
thing was necessary to produce this effect, and increased the 
grave apprehensions which were already at my heart. The next 
consequence was to make the manner of my communication se- 
rious even to severity. A smile, which was of that doubtful sort 
which is always sinister and offensive, overspread her lips as she 
motioned me to resume the seat from which I had risen at her 
entrance ; while she threw herself with an air of studied negli- 
gence upon one part of the sofa. I felt the awkwardness of my 
position duly increased, as her house, dress, and manner, con- 
vinced me that she was not yet subdued to hers ; hut a conscious 
rectitude of intention carried me forward, and lightened the task 
to my feelings. 

" Mrs. Clifford,” I said, without circumlocution, “ I have pre- 
sumed to ask your attention this morning to a brief communica 
tion which materially affects my happiness, and which I trust 
may not diminish, if it does not actually promote, yours. Before 
I make this communication, however, I hope I may persuade 
myself that the little misunderstandings which have occurred 
between us are no longer to he considered barriers to our mutual 
peace and happiness ” 

“ Misunderstandings, Mr. Clifford ? — I don’t know what mis- 
anderstandings you mean. I’m sure I’ve never misunderstood 
you.” 

I could not misunderstand the insolent tenor of this speech, 


94 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


but I availed myself of the equivoque which it involved to ex 
press my gratification that such was the case. 

“ My path will then he more easy, Mrs. Clifford — my purpose 
more easily explained.” 

“ I am glad you think so, sir,” she answered coolly, smoothing 
down certain folds of her frock, and crossing her hands upon her 
lap, while she assumed the attitude of a patient listener. There 
was something very repulsive in all this ; but I saw that the only 
way to lessen the unpleasantness of the scene, and to get on 
with her, would be to make the interview as short as possible, 
and come at once to my object. This I did. 

“ It is now more than a year, Mrs. Clifford, since I had the 
honor to say to my uncle, that I entertained for my cousin J ulia 
such a degree of affection as to make it no longer doubtful to 
me that I should best consult my own happiness by seeking to 
make her my wife. I had the pleasure at the same time to in- 
form him, which I believed to be true, that Julia herself was 
not unwilling that such should be the nearer tie between us ” 

“Yes, yes, Mr. Clifford, I know all this ; but my husband and 
myself thought better of it, and ” she said with fidgeity im- 

patience. 

“ And my application was refused,” I said calmly ; thus fin- 
ishing the sentence where she had paused. 

“Well, sir, and what then ?” 

“ At that time, madam, my uncle gave as a reason that he had 
other arrangements in view.” 

“ Yes, sir, so we had ; and this reminds me that those arrange 
ments were broken off entirely in consequence of the perversity 
which you taught my daughter. I know it all, cir ; there’s no 
more need to tell me of it, than there is to deny it. You put 
my daughter up to refusing young Roberts, who would have 
jumped at her, as his father did — and he one of the best families 
and best fortunes in the city. I’m sure I don’t know, sir, what 
object you can have in reminding me of these things.” 

Here was ingenious perversity. I bore with it as well as I 
could, and strove to preserve my consideration and calmness. 

“ You do your daughter injustice, Mrs. Clifford, and me no less, 
in this opinion. But I do not seek to remind you pf misunder- 
standings and mistakes, the memory of which can do no good. 


HEAD WINDS. 


95 


My purpose now is to renew the offer to you which I originally 
made to Mr. Clifford. My attachment to your daughter remains 
unaltered, and I am happy to say that fortune has favored me so 
far as to enable me to place her in a situation of comparative 
comfort and independence which I could not offer then ” 

“ Which is as much as to say that she don’t enjoy comfort 
and independence where she is ; and if she does not, sir, to 
whom is it all owing, sir, but to you and your father ? By 
your means it is that we are reduced to poverty; but you shall 
see, sir, that we are not entirely wanting in independence. My 
answer, sir, is just the same as Mr. Clifford’s was. I am very 
much obliged to you for the honor you intend my family, but 
we must decline it. As for the comfort and independence which 
you proffer to my daughter, I am happy to inform you that she 
can receive it at any moment from a source perhaps far mgre 
able than yourself to afford both, if her perversity does not 
stand in the way, as it did when young Roberts made his offers. 
Mr. Perkins, sir, the excellent young man that you tried to 
murder, is to be here, sir, this very morning, to see my daugh- 
ter. , Keren’s his letter, sir, which you may read, that you may 
be under no apprehensions that my daughter will ever suffer 
from a want of comfort and independence.” 

She flung a letter down on the sofa beside her, but I simply 
bowed, and declined looking at it. I did not, however, yield 
the contest in this manner. I urged all that might properly be 
urged on the subject, and with as much earnestness as could be 
permitted in an interview with a lady — and such a lady! — 
but, as the reader may suppose, my toils were taken in vain : 
all that I could suggest, either in the shape of reason or expos- 
tulation, only served to make her more and more dogged, and 
to increase her tone of insolence ; and sore, stung with vexation, 
disappointed, and something more than bewildered, I dashed 
almost headlong out of the house, without seeing either Julia 
or her father, precisely at the moment when Mr. Perkins was 
about to enter. 


96 


CONFESSION. OR THE BUND HEART. 


CHAPTER XI. 

CRISIS. 

The result of this interview of my rival with the mother of 
Julia, was afforded me by the latter. The mother had already 
given her consent to his suit — that of Julia alone was to be ob- 
tained ; and to this end the arts of the suito-r and the mother 
were equally devoted. Her refusal only brought with it new 
forms of persecution. Her steps were haunted by the swain, 
to whom Mrs. Clifford gave secret notice of all her daughter’s 
intentions. He was her invariable attendant at church, where 
I had the pain constantly to behold them, in such close prox- 
imity, that I at length abandoned the customary house of wor- 
ship, and found my pew in another, where I could be enabled 
to endure the forms of service without being oppresssd by for- 
eign and distracting thoughts and fancies. 

Of the progress of the suit I had occasional intelligence from 
Julia herself, whom I had, very reluctantly on her part, per- 
suaded to meet me at the house of a female relative and friend, 
who favored our desires and managed our interviews. Brief were 
these stolen moments, but oh, how blissful ! The pleasures 
they afforded, however, were almost wholly mine. The clan- 
destine character of our meetings served to deprive her of the 
joy which they otherwise might have yielded ; and the fear 
that she v/as not doing right, humbled her spirit and made her 
tremble with frequent apprehensions. 

At length Mrs. Clifford suspected our interviews, and de- 
tected them. We had a most stormy scene on one occasion, 
when the sudden entrance of this lady surprised us together, at 
the house of our friend. The consequence of this was, a rupture 
between the ladies, which resulted in Julia’s being forbidden to 
visit the house of her relative again. This measure was fol- 


CRISIS. 


97 


lowed by others of such precaution, that at length I could no 
longer communicate with her, or even seek her, unless when 
she was on her way to church. Her appearance then was such 
as to awaken all my apprehensions. Her form, always slender, 
was become more so. The change was striking in a single 
week. Her face, usually pale and delicate, was now haggard. 
Her walk was feeble, and without elasticity. Her whole appear- 
ance was wo-begone and utterly spiritless. Days and weeks 
passed, and my heart was filled with hourly-increasing appre- 
hensions. I returned to the familiar church, but here I suffered 
a new alarm. That sabbath the family pew was unoccupied. 
While I trembled lest something serious had befallen her, I was 
called on by the family physician. , This gentleman had been al- 
ways friendly. He had been my father’s physician, and had 
been his friend and frequent guest ; he knew my history, and sym- 
pathized with my fortunes. He now knew the history of Ju- 
lia’s affections. She had made him her confidante so far. and 
he brought me a letter from her. She was sick, as I expected. 
This letter was of startling tenor : — 

“ Save me, Edward, if you can. I am now willing to do as 
you proposed. I can no longer endure these annoyances — 
these cruel persecutions ! My mother tells me that I must sub- 
mit and marry this man, if we would save ourselves from ruin. 
It seems he has a claim against the estate for professional ser- 
vices ; and as we have no other means of payment, without the 
sale of all that is left, he is base enough- to insist upon my hand 
as the condition of his forbearance. He uses threats now, since 
entreaties have failed him. Oh, Edward, if you can save me, 
come! — for, of a certainty, I can not bear this persecution 
much longer and live. I am now willing to consent to do what 
Aunt Sophy recommended. Do not think me bold to say 
so, dear Edward — if I am bold, it is despair which makes 
me so.” 

I read this letter with mingled feelings of indignation and 
delight — indignation, because of the cruelties to which the 
worthless mother and the base suitor subjected one so dear and 
innocent; delight, since the consent which she now yielded 
placed the means of saving her at my control. The cgnsent 
was to a flight and clandestine marriage, to which I had, with 

5 


98 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the assistance of our mutual friend, endeavored to persuade her, 
in several instances, before. 

The question now was, how to effect this object, since we 
had no opportunities for communication ; but, before I took any 
steps in the matter, I made it a point of duty to deprive the 
infamous attorney, Perkins, of his means of power over the un- 
happy family. I determined to pay his legal charges ; and 
William Edgerton, at my request, readily undertook this part 
of the business. They were found to be extortionate, and far 
beyond anything either warranted by the practice or the fee- 
bill. Edgerton counselled me to resist the claim ; but the sub- 
ject was too delicate in all its relations, and my oAvn affair with 
Perkins would have made my active opposition seem somewhat 
the consequence of malice and inveterate hostility. I preferred 
to pay the excess, which Avas done by Edgerton, rather than 
have any further dispute or difficulty Avith one whom I so much 
despised. Complete satisfaction Avas entered upon the records 
of the court, and a certified discharge, under the hand of Per- 
kins himself — which he gave Avith a reluctance full of mortifi- 
cation — was sent in a blank envelope to Mrs. Clifford. She 
was thus deprived of the only excuse — if, indeed, such a wo- 
man ever needs an excuse for wilfulness — for persecuting her 
unhappy daughter on the score of the attorney. 

But the possession of this document effected no sort of change 
in her conduct. She pursued her victim Avith the same old te- 
nacity. It was not to favor Perkins that she strove for this 
object : it was to baffie me. That blind heart, which misguides 
all of us in turn, was predominant in her, and rendered her to- 
tally incapable of seeing the cruel consequences to her daughter 
which her perseverance threatened. Julia was now so feeble 
as scarcely to leave her chamber ; the physician was daily in 
attendance ; and, though I could not propose to make use of 
his services in promoting a design which Avould subject him to 
the reproach of the grossest treachery, yet, Avithout counsel, he 
took it upon him plainly to assure the mother that the disorder 
of her daughter arose solely from her mental afflictions. He 
went farther. Mrs. Clifford, whose garrulity was as notorious 
as hetf vanity and folly, herself took occasion, Avhen this was 
told her, to ascribe the effect to me; and, with her own color 


CRISIS. 


99 


ing, she continued, by going into a long history of our “ course 
of wooing.” The doctor availed himself of these statements to 
suggest the necessity of a compromise, assuring Mrs. OhfFord 
that I was really a more deserving person than she thought 
me, and, in short, that some concessions must be made, if it was 
her hope to save her daughter’s life. 

“ She is naturally feeble of frame, nervous and sensitive, and 
these excitements, pressing upon her, will break down her con- 
stitution and her spirits together. Let me warn you, Mrs. Clif- 
ford, while yet in season. Dismiss your prejudices against this 
young man, whether well or ill founded, and permit your daugh- 
ter to marry him. Suffer me to assure you, Mrs. Clifford, that 
such an event will do more toward her recovery than all my 
medicine.” 

What, and see him the master of my house — he, the poor 
beggar-boy that my husband fed in charity, and who turned 
from him with ingratitude in his moment of difficulty, and left 
him to he despoiled by his enemies t Never ! never ! Daugh- 
ter of mine shall never be wife of his ! The serpent ! to sting 
the hand of his benefactor !” 

“ My dear Mrs. Clifford, this prejudice of yours, besides being 
totally unfounded, amounts to monomania. Now, I know some- 
thing of all these matters, as you should be aware ; and I should 
be sorry to counsel anything to you or to your family which 
would be either disgraceful or injurious. So far from this young 
man being ungrateful, neglectful, or suffering your husband to 
be preyed on by enemies, I am of opinion that, if his coun- 
sel had been taken in this late unhappy business, you would 
probably have been spared all of the misery and nearly one 
half of the loss which has been incurred by the refusal to 
do so.” 

‘‘And so you, too, are against us, doctor? You, too, believe 
everything that this young man tells you ?” 

“ No, madam ; I assure you, honestly, that I never heard a 
single word from his lips in regard to this subject. It is spoken 
of by everybody but himself.” 

“Ay ! ay ! the whole town knows it, and from who else but 
him, I wonder? But you needn’t to talk, doctor, on the sub- 
ject. My mind’s made up. Edward Clifford, while I have 


100 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


breath to say ‘No,’ and a hand to turn the lock of the dooi 
against him, shall never again darken these doors !” 

The physician was a man of too much experience to waste 
labor upon a case so decidedly hopeless. He knew that no art 
within his compass could cure so thorough a case of heart-blind- 
ness, and he gave her up ; but he did not give up Julia. He 
whispered words of consolation into her ears, which, though 
vague, were yet far more useful than physic. 

“ Cheer up, my daughter ; be of good heart and faith. 1 av% 
sure that there will be some remedy provided for you, before 
long, which will do you good. I have given the letter to your 
aunt, and she promises to do as you wish.” 

It may be said, en passant, that the billet sent to me had 
been covered, in another to my female friend and Julia’s rela- 
tive ; and that the doctor, though not unconscious of the agency 
of this lady between us, was yet guilty of no violation of the 
faith which is always implied between the family and the phy- 
sician. He might suspect, but he did not know ; and whatever 
might have been his suspicions, he certainly did not have the 
most distant idea of that concession which Julia had made, and 
of the course of conduct for which her mother’s persecutions 
had now prepared her mind. 

Mr. Perkins, though deprived of his lien upon Mrs. Clifford, 
by reason of his claim, did not in the least forego his inten- 
tions. His complaints and threatenings necessarily ceased — 
his tone was something lowered ; but he possessed a hold upon 
this silly woman’s prejudices which was far superior to any 
which he might before have had upon her fears. His hostility 
to me was grateful to the hate which she also entertained, and 
which seemed to be more thoroughly infixed in her after her 
downfall — which, as it has been seen, she ascribed to me; 
chiefly because of my predictions that such would be the case. 
In due proportion to her hate for me, was her desire to baffle 
my wishes, even though it might be at the expense of her own 
daughter’s life. But a vain mother has no affections — none, at 
least, worthy of the name, and none which she is not prepared 
to discard at the first requisition of her dearer self. Her hate 
of me was so extreme as to render her blind to everything be- 
sides — her daughter’s sickness, the counsel of the physician, 


CRISIS. 


101 


the otherwise obvious vulgarity and meanness of Perkins, and 
that gross injustice which I had suffered at her hands from the 
beginning, and which, to many minds, might have amply justi- 
fied in me the hostile feelings which she laid to my charge. In 
this blindness she precipitated events, and by her cruelty justi- 
fied extremities in self-defence. The moment that Julia exhib- 
ited some slight improvement, she was summoned to an inter- 
view with Perkins, and in this interview her mother solemnly 
swore that she should marry him. The base-minded suitor 
stood by in silence, beheld the loathing of the maiden, heard 
her distinct refusal, yet clung to his victim, and permitted the 
violence of the mother, without rebuke — that rebuke which the 
true gentleman might have administered in such a case, and 
which, to forbear, was the foulest shame — the rebuke of his 
own decided refusal to participate in such a sacrifice. But he 
was not capable of this ; and Julia, stunned and terrified, was 
shocked to hear Mrs. Clifford appoint the night of the following 
Thursday for the forced nuptials. 

“She will consent — she shall consent, Mr. Perkins,” were 
the vehement assurances of the mother, as the craven-spirited 
suitor prepared to take his leave. “ I know her better than you 
do, and she knows me. Do you fear nothing, but bring Mr 

” (the divine) “along with you. We shall put an end to 

this folly.” 

“ Oh, do not, do not, mother, if you would not drive me mad !” 
was the exclamation of the destined victim, as she threw her- 
self at the feet of her unnatural parent. “ You will kill me to 
wed this manl I can not marry him — I can not love him. 
Why would you force this matter upon me — why ! why !” 

“ Why will you resist me, Julia ? why will you provoke your 
mother to this degree ? You have only to consent willingly, 
and you know how kind I am.” 

“ I can not consent !” was the gasping decision of the maiden. 

“ You shall ! you must ! you will !” 

“ Never ! never ! On my knees I say it, mother. God will 
witness what you refuse to believe. I will die before I consent 
to marry where I do not give my heart.” 

“ Oh, you talk of dying, as if it was a very easy matter. But 
you won’t die. It’s more easy to say than do. Do you come. 


102 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Mr. Perkins. Don’t you mind — don’t you believe in these 
denials, and oaths, and promises. It’s the way with all young 
ladies. They all make a mighty fuss when they’re going to be 
married ; but they’re all mighty willing, if the truth was known. 
I ought to know something about it. I did just the same as she 
when I was going to marry Mr. Clifford ; yet nobody was more 
willing than I was to get a husband. Do you come and bring 
the parson j she’ll sing a different tune when she stands up be- 
fore him, I warrant you.” 

“That shall never be, Mr. Perkins!” said the maiden sol- 
emnly, and somewhat approaching the person whom she ad- 
dressed. “ I have already more than once declined the honor 
you propose to do me. I now repeat to you that I will sooner 
marry the grave and the winding-sheet than be your wifel My 
mother mistakes me and all my feelings. For your own sake, 
if not for mine, I beg that you will not mistake them ; for, if 
the strength is left me for speech, I will declare aloud to the 
reverend man whom you are told to bring, the nature of those 
persecutions to which you have been privy. I will tell him of 
the cruelty which I ha.ve been compelled to endure, and which 
you have beheld and encouraged with your silence.” 

Perkins looked aghast, muttered his unwillingness to prose- 
cute his suit under such circumstances, and prepared to take 
his leave. His mutterings and apologies were all swallowed 
up in that furious storm of abuse and denunciation which now 
poured from the lips of the exemplary mother. These we need 
not repeat. Suffice it that the deep feelings of Julia — her 
sense of propriety and good taste — prevailed to keep her silent, 
while her mother, still raving, renewed her assurances to the 
pettifogger that he should certainly receive his wife at her 
hands on the evening of the ensuing Thursday. The unmanly 
suitor accepted her assurances — and took leave of mother and 
daughter, with the expression of a simpering hope, intended 
chiefly for the latter, that her objections would resolve them- 
selves into the usual maidenly scruples when the appointed 
time should arrive Julia mustered strength enough to reply in 
language which brought down another storm from her mother 
upon her devoted head. 

“Do not deceive yourself, Mr. Perkins — do not let the assn- 


CRISIS. 


103 


ranees of my mother deceive you. She does not know me. I 
can not and will not marry you. I will sooner marry the grave 
— the winding-sheet — the worm !” 

Her strength failed her the moment he left the apartment. 
She sank in a fainting-fit upon the floor, and was thus saved 
from hearing the bitter abuse which her miserable and mis- 
guided parent continued to lavish upon her, even while under- 
taking the task of her restoration. The evident exhaustion of 
her frame, her increasing feebleness, the agony of her mind, 
and the possibly fatal termination of her indisposition, did not 
in the least serve to modify the violent and vexing mood of 
this most unnatural woman ! 


104 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XII. 

‘‘GONE TO BE MARRIED.” 

These proceedings, the tenor of which was briefly communi- 
cated to me in a hurried note from Julia, despatched by the 
hands of the physician, under a cover, to the friendly aunt, ren- 
dered it imperatively necessary that, whatever we proposed to 
do should be done quickly, if we entertained any hope to save 
her. The tone of her epistle alarmed me exceedingly in one 
respect, as it evidently showed that she could not much longer 
save herself. Her courage was sinking with her spirits, which 
were yielding rapidly beneath the continued presence of that 
persecution which had so long been acting upon her. She 
began now to distrust her own strength — her very powers of 
utterance to declare her aversion to the proposed marriage, if 
ever the trial was brought to the threatened issue before the 
holy man. 

“What am I to do — what say — ” demanded her trembling 
epistle, “ should they go so far ? Am I to declare the truth ] 
— can I tell to strange ears that it is my mother who forces this 
cruel sacrifice upon me ? I dread I can not. I fear that my 
soul and voice will equally fail me. I tremble, dear Edward, 
when I think that the awful moment may find me speechless, 
and my consent may he assumed from my silence. Save me 
from this trial, dearest Edward; for I fear everything now — 
and fear myself — my unhappy weakness of nerve and spirit — 
more than all. Do not leave me to this trial of my strength — 
for I have none. Save me if you can !” 

It may be readily believed that I needed little soliciting to 
exertion after this. The words of this letter occasioned an 
alarm in my mind, little less — though of a difl’erent kind — 
than that which prevailed in hers. I knew the weakness of 


GONE TO BE MARRIED. 


105 


hers — I knew hers — and felt the apprehension that she might 
fail at the proper moment, even more vividly than she ex- 
pressed it. 

This letter did not take me by surprise. Before it was re- 
ceived, and soon after the first with which she had favored me, 
by the hands of the friendly physician, I had begun my prep- 
arations with the view to our clandestine marriage. I was only 
now required to quicken them. The obstacle, on the face of 
it, was, comparatively, a small one. To get her from a dwel- 
ling, in which, though her steps were watched, she was not ex- 
actly a prisoner, was scarcely a difficulty, where the lover and 
the lady are equally willing. 

Our mode of operations was simple. There was a favorite 
servant — a negro — who had been raised in the family, had 
been a playmate with my poor deceased cousin and myself, and 
had always been held in particular regard by both of us. He 
was not what is called a house-servant, but was employed in 
the yard in doing various offices, such as cutting wood, tending 
the garden, going of messages, and so forth. This was in the 
better days of the Clifford family. Since its downfall he had 
been instructed to look an owner, and, opportunely, at this 
moment, when I was deliberating upon the process I should 
adopt for the extrication of his young mistress, he came to me 
to request that I would buy him. The presence of this servant 
suggested to me that he could assist me materially in my plans. 
Without suffering him to know the intention which I had formed, 
I listened to his garrulous harangue. A negro is usually very 
copious, where he has an auditor ; and though, from his situa- 
tion, he could directly see nothing of the proceedings in the 
house of his owner, yet, from his fellow-servants he had con- 
tidved to gather, perhaps, a very correct account of the general 
condition of things. It appeared from his story that the at- 
tachment of Miss Julia to myself was very commonly under- 
stood. The effort of the mother to persuade her to marry Per- 
kins was also known to him ; but of the arrangement that the 
marriage should take place at the early day mentioned in her 
note, he told me nothing, and, in all probability, this part of 
her proceedings was kept a close secret by the wily dame 
Peter — the name of the negro — went on to add, that, loving 

6 * 


106 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

me, and loving his young mistress, and knowing that we loved 
one another, and believing that we should one day be married, 
he was anxious to have me for his future owner. 

I will buy you, Peter, on one condition.” 

“ Wha’s dat. Mas’ Ned ?” 

“ That you serve me faithfully on trial, for five days, with- 
out letting anybody know who you serve — that you carry my 
messages without letting anybody hear them except that per- 
son to whom you are sent — and, if I give you a note to carry, 
that you carry it safely, not only without suflfenng anybody to 
see the note but the one to whom I send it, but without suffer- 
ing anybody to know or suspect that you’ve got such a thing as 
a note about you.” 

The fellow was all promises; and I penned a billet to Julia 
which, in few words, briefly prepared her to expect my at- 
tendance at her house at three in the afternoon of the very day 
when her nuptials were contemplated. I then proceeded to a 
friend — Kingsley — the friend who had served me in the meet- 
ing with Perkins ; a bold, dashing, frank fellow, who loved 
nothing better than a frolic which worried one of the parties ; 
and who, I well knew, would relish nothing more than to baffle 
Perkins in a love affair, as we had already done in one of 
strife. To him I unfolded my plan and craved his assistance, 
which was promised instantly. My female friend, the relative 
of Julia, whose assistance had been already given us, and 
whose quarrel with Mrs. Clifford in consequence, had spiced her 
determination to annoy her still further whenever occasion of- 
fered, was advised of our plans ; and William Edgerton readily 
undertook what seemed to be the most innocent part of all, to 
procure a priest to officiate for us, at the house of the lady in 
question, and at the appointed time. 

My new retainer, Peter, brought me due intelligence of the 
delivery of the note, in secret, to Julia, and a verbal answer 
from her made me sanguine of success. The day came, and 
the hour ; and in obedience to our plan, my friend, Kingsley, 
proceeded boldly to the dwelling of Mrs. Clifford, just as that 
lady had taken her seat at the dinner-table, requesting to see 
and speak with her on business of importance. The interview 
was vouchsafed him, though not until the worthy lady had in- 


GONE TO BE MARRIED. 


107 


structed the servant to say that she was just then at the dinner- 
table, and would be glad if the gentleman would call again. 

But the gentleman regretted that he could not call again. 
He was from Kentucky, desirous of buying slaves, and must 
leave town the next morning for the west. The mention of his 
occupation, as Mrs. Clifford had slaves to sell, was sufficient to 
persuade her to lay down the knife and fork with promptness ; 
and the servant was bade to show the Kentucky gentleman 
into the parlor. Our arrangement was, that, with the departure 
of the lady from the table. Julia should leave it also — descend 
the stairs, and meet me at the entrance. 

Trembling almost to fainting, the poor girl came to me, and I 
received her into my arms, with something of a tremor also. I 
felt the prize would be one that I should be very loath to lose ; 
and joy led to anxiety, and my anxiety rendered me nervous 
to a womanly degree. But I did not lose my composure and 
when I had taken her into my aims, I thought it would be only 
a prudent precaution to turn the key in the outer door, and 
leave it somewhere along the highway. This I did, absolutely 
forgetting, that, in thus securing myself against any sudden 
pursuit, I had also locked up my friend, the Kentucky trader. 

Fortune favored our movements. Our preparations had been 
properly laid, and Edgerton had the divine in waiting. In less 
than half an hour after leaving the house of her parents, Julia 
and myself stood up to be married. Pale, feeble, sad — the 
poor girl, though she felt no reluctance, and suffered not the 
most momentary remorse for the steps she had taken, and was 
about to take, was yet necessarily and naturally impressed with 
the solemnity and the doubts which hung over the event. 
Young, timid, artless, apprehensive, she was unsupported by 
those whom nature had appointed to watch over and protect 
her ; and though they had neglected, and would have betrayed 
their trust, she yet could not but feel that there was an incom- 
pleteness about the affair, which, not even the solemn accents 
of the priest, the deep requisitions of those pledges which she 
was called upon to make, and the evident conviction which she 
now entertained, that what had been done was necessary to be 
done, for her happiness, and even her life — could entirely re- 
move. There was an awful but sweet earnestness in the sad. 


108 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


intense glance of entreaty, with which she regarded me when 
I made the final response. Her large black eye dilated, even 
under the dewy suffusion of its tears, as it seemed to say : — 

It is to you now — to you alone — that I look for that pro- 
tection, that happiness which was denied where I had best right 
to look for it. Ah ! let me not look, let me not yield myself to 
you in vain !” ^ 

How imploring, yet how resigned was that glance of tears — 
love in tears, yet love that trusted without fear ! It was the 
embodiment of innocence, struggling between hope and doubt, 
and only strengthened for the future by the pure, sweet faith 
which grew out of their conflict. I look back upon that scene, 
I recall that glance, with a sinking of the heart which is full of 
terror and terrible reproach. Ah ! then, then, I had no fear, 
no thought, that I should see that look, and others, more sad, 
more imploring still, and see them without a corresponding 
faith and love ! I little knew, in that brief, blessed hour, how 
rapidly the blindness of the heart comes on, even as the scale 
over the eyes — but such a scale as no surgeon’s knife can cut 
away. 


BAFFLED FURY. 


109 


CHAPTER XIII. 

BAFFLED FURY. 

In the first gush of my happiness — the ceremony being com- 
pleted, and the possession of my treasure certain — I had en- 
tirely forgotten my Kentucky friend, whom I had locked up, in 
confidential tHe-a-tete with madam, my exemplary mother-in- 
law. He was a fellow with a strong dash of humor, and could 
not resist the impulse to amuse himself at the expense of the 
lady, by making an admirable scene of the proceeding. He 
began the business by stating that he had heard she had sev- 
eral negroes whom she wished to sell — that he was anxious to 
buy — he did not care how many, and would give the very best 
prices of any trader in the market. At his desire, all were 
summoned in attendance — some three or four in number, that 
she had to dispose of — all but the worthy Peter, who, under 
existing circumstances, was quite too necessary to my proceed- 
ings to be dispensed with. These were all carefully examined 
by the trader. They were asked their ages, their names, their 
qualities ; whether they were willing to go to Kentucky, the 
paradise of the western Indian, and so forth — all those ques- 
tions which, in ordinary cases, it is the custom of the purchaser 
to ask. They were then dismissed, and the Kentuckian next 
discussed with the lady the subject of prices. But let the wor- 
thy fellow speak for himself : — 

“ I was so cursed anxious,” he said, “ to know whether you 
had got off and in safety, for I was beginning to get monstrous 
tired of the old cat, that I jumped up every now and then to 
take a peep out of the front window. I made an excuse to spit 
on such occasions — though sometimes I forgot to do so — and 
then I would go back and begin again, with something about 
the bargain and the terms, and whether the negroes were hon- 
est, and sound, and all that. Well, though I looked out as often 


110 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

as I we]l could with civility, I saw nothing of you, and began 
to fear that something had happened to unsettle the whole plan ; 
but, after a while, I saw Peter, with his mouth drawn back and 
hooked up into his ears, with his white teeth glimmering like 
so many slips of moonshine in a dark night, and I then con- 
cluded that all was as it should be. But seeing me look out so 
earnestly and often, the good lady at length said : — 

“ ‘ I suppose, sir, your horses are in waiting. Perhaps you’d 
like to have a servant to mind them.’ 

“ ‘ No, ma’am, I’m obliged to you ; but I left the hotel on 
foot.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir,’ said she, ‘ but I thought it might be your horses, 
seeing you so often look out.’ 

“ I could scarcely keep in my laughter. It did burst out into 
a sort of chuckle; and, as you were then safe — I knew that 
from Peter’s jaws — I determined to have my own fun out of 
the old woman. So I said — pretty much in this sort of fashion, 
for I longed to worry her, and knew just how it could be done 
handsomest — I said : — 

“ ‘The truth is, ma’am — pardon me for the slight — but re- 
ally I was quite interested — struck, as I may say, by a very 
suspicious transaction that met my eyes a while ago, when I 
first got up to spit from the window.’ 

“ ‘ Ahf indeed, sir ! and pray, if I may ask, what was it you 
saw V 

“ ‘ Really very curious ; but getting up to spit, and looking 
out before I did so — necessary caution, ma’am — some persons 
might be just under the window, you know — ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir, yes.’ The old creature began to look and talk 
mighty eager. 

“ ‘ An ugly habit, ma’am — that of spitting. We Kentucki- 
ans carry it to great excess. Foreigners, I’m told, count it mon- 
strous vulgar — effect of tobacco-chewing, ma’am — a deuced bad 
habit, I grant you, but ’tis a habit, and there’s no leaving it off, 
even if we would. I don’t think Kentuckians, as a people, a 
bit more vulgar than English, or French, or Turks, or any other 
respectable people of other countries.’ 

“‘No, sir, certainly not; but the transaction — what you 
saw.’ 


BAFFLED FURY. 


Ill 


“ * Ah, yes ! beg pardon ; but, as I was sayi jg, something re- 
ally quite suspicious ! Just as I was about to spit, when I went 
to the window, some ten minutes ago — perhaps you did not 
observe, but I did not spit. Good reason for it, ma’am — might 
have done mischief.’ 

“ ‘ How, sir V 

“ ‘ Ah, that brings me to the question I want to ask : any 
handsome young ladies living about here, ma’am? — here, in 
your neighborhood V 

“ ‘ Why, yes, sir,’ answered the old tabby, with something 
like surprise; ‘there’s several — there’s the Masons, just oppo- 
site ; the Bagbys, next door to them below, and Mr. Wilford’s 
daughter : all of them would be considered pretty by some per- 
sons. On the same side with us, there’s Mrs. Freeman and her 
two daughters, but the widow is accounted by many the young- 
est looking and prettiest of the whole, though, to my thinking, 
that’s saying precious little for any. Next door to us is a Mr. 
and Mrs. Gribbs, who have a daughter, and she is rather pretty, 
but I don’t know much about them. It might be a mother’s 
vanity, sir, but I think I may be proud of having a daughter 
myself, who is about as pretty as any of the best among them ; 
and that’s saying a great deal less for her than might be said.’ 

“‘Ah, indeed — you a daughter, ma’am? But she is not 
grown-up, of course — a mere child?’ 

“ ‘ Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the old creature, tickled 
up to the eyes, and looking at me with the sweetest smiles ; 
‘ though it may surprise you very much, she is not only no 
child, but a woman grown ; and, what’s more, I think she will 
be made a wife this very night.’ 

“ ‘ Egad, then I suspect she’s not the only one that’s about to 
be made a wife of. I suspect some one of these young ladies, 
your neighbors, will be very soon in the same condition.’ 

“‘Indeed, sir — pray, who? — how do you know?’ and the 
old tabby edged herself along the sofa until she almost got jam 
up beside me. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said I, ‘ I don’t know exactly, but I’m deucedly 
suspicious of it, and, more than that, there’s some underhand 
work going on.’ 

“ This made her more curious than ever ; and her hands and 


112 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

feet, and indeed her whole body, got such a fidgeting, that 1 
fancied she began to think of getting St. Vitus for a bedfellow. 
Her eagerness made her ask me two or three times what made 
me think so ; and, seeing her anxiety, I purposely delayed in 
order to worry her. I wished to see how far I could run her 
up. When I did begin to explain, I went to work in a round- 
about way enough — something thus, old Kentuck — as I began : 
‘Well, ma’am, this tobacco-chewing, as I said before, carried 
me, as you witnessed, constantly to the window. I don’t know 
that I chew more than many others, but I know I chew too 
much for my good, and for decency, too, ma’am.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, sir, yes ; but the young lady, and — ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, yes, ma’am. Well, then, going to the window once, 
twice, or thrice, I could not help but see a young man standing 
beneath it, evidently in waiting — very earnest, very watchful 
— seemingly very much interested and anxious, as if waiting 
for somebody.’ 

“ ‘ Is it possible V whispered the tabby, full of expectation. 

“ ‘Yes, very possible, ma’am — very true. There he stood; 
I could even hear his deep-drawn sighs — deep, long, as if from 
the very bottom of liis heart.’ 

“ ‘ Was he so very near, sir ?’ 

“ ‘Just under the window — going to and fro — very anxious. 
1 was almost afraid 1 had spit on him, he looked up so hard — 
so — ’ 

“ ‘What, sir, up at you? at — at my windows, sir?’ 

“ ‘ Not exactly, ma’am, that was only my notion, for I thought 
I might have spit upon him, and so wakened his anger ; but, in- 
deed, he looked all about him, as, indeed, it was natural that he 
should, you know, if he meditated anything that wa’n’t exactly 
right. There was a carriage in waiting — a close carriage — not 
a hundred yards below, and — ’ 

“ ‘ Ah, sir, do tell me what sort of a looking young gentleman 
was it — eh ?’ 

“ ‘ Good-looking fellow enough, ma’am — rather tall, slender- 
ish, but not so slender — wore a black frock.’ By this time the 
old creature was up at the window — her long, skinny neck 
stretched out as far as it could go. 

“ ‘ Ah !’ said I, ‘ ma’am, you’re quite too late, if you expect 


BAFFLED FURY. 113 

to see the sport. They’re off ; I saw the last of them when I 
took my last spit from the window. They were then — ’ 

“ ‘But, sir, did he — did you saythat this person — the per- 
son you spit on — carried a young lady away with him V 

“ ‘ You mistake me, ma’am — ’ 

“ ‘ Ah !’ — she drew a mighty long breath as if relieved. 

“ ‘ I did not spit upon him ; I only came near doing it once 
or twice. If I hadn’t looked, I should very probably have 
divided my quid pretty equally between both of them.’ 

“ ‘ Both ! both !’ she almost screamed. ‘ Did she go with him, 
then? — was there in truth a young woman?’ 

“ You never saw a creature in such a tearing fidget. Her 
long nose was nearly stuck into my face, and both her hands, 
all claws extended, seemed ready for my cheeks. I felt a little 
ticklish, I assure you ; but I kept up my courage, determined to 
see the game out, and answered very deliberately, after I had 
put a fresh quid into my jaws : — 

“ ‘ Ay, that she did, ma’am, and seemed deuced glad to go, 
as was natural enough. A mighty pretty girl she was, too ; 
rather thin, but pretty enough to tempt a clever fellow to do 
anything. I reckon they’re nigh on to being man and wife by 
this time, let the old people say what they will.*’ 

“ But the old put didn’t wait to hear me say all this. Before 
the words were well out of my mouth, she gave a bounce, to the 
bell-rope first — I thought she’d ha’ jerked it to pieces — and 
then to the head of the stairs. 

“ ‘ Excuse me for a moment, sir, if you please,’ she said, in a 
considerable fidget. 

“ ‘ Certainly, ma’am,’ says I, with a great Kentucky sort of 
bow and natural civility ; and then I could hear her squalling 
from the head of the stairs, and at the top of her voice, ‘ Julia ! 
Julia! Julia!’ — but there was no answer from Julia. Then 
came the servants ; then came the outcry ; then she bounced 
back into the parlor, and blazed out at me for not telling her at 
once that it was her daughter who had been carried off, with- 
out making so long a story of it, and putting in so much talk 
about tobacco. 

“ ‘ Lord bless you, my dear woman !’ says I, innocent enough, 
‘ was that pretty girl your daughter ? That accounts foi the 


114 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


fellow looking up at the window so often ; and I to fancy that 
it was all because I might have given him a quid !’ 

“ ‘ You must have seen her then /’ 

“ ‘ Well, ma’am,’ said I, ‘ I must come again about the negi’oes. 
1 see you’ve got your hands full.’ 

“ And, with that, I pushed down stairs, while she blazed out 
at her husband, whom she called an old fool ; and me, whom 
she called a young one ; and the negroes, whom she ordered to 
fly in a hundred ways in the same breath ; and, to make matters 
worse, she seized her hat and shawl, and bounced down the 
steps after me. Here we were in a fix again, that made her a 
hundred times more furious. The street-door was locked on the 
outside, and the key gone, and I fastened up with the old mad 
tabby. I tried to stand it while the servants were belaboring 
to break open, but the storm was too heavy, and, raising a sash, 
I went through : and, in good faith, 1 believe she bounced 
through after me ; for, when I got fairly into the street and 
looked round, there she went, bounce, flounce, pell-mell, all in 
a rage, steam up, puflSng like a porpoise — though, thank Jupi- 
ter ! she took another course from myself. I was glad to get 
out of her clutches, I assure you.” 

Such was Kingsley’s account of his expedition, told in his 
particular manner ; and endued with the dramatic vitality which 
he was well able to give it, it was inimitable. It needs but a 
few words to finish it. Mrs. Clifford, with unerring instinct, 
made her way to the house of that friendly lady who had as- 
sisted our proceedings. But she came too late for anything but 
abuse. Julia was irrevocably mine. Bitter was the clamor 
which, in our chamber, assailed us from below. 

“ Oh, Edward, how shall I meet her ?” was the convulsive 
.speech of Julia, as she heard the fearful sounds of her mother’s 
voice — a voice never very musical, and which now, stimulated 
by unmeasured rage — the rage of a baffled and wicked woman 
— poured forth a torrent of screams rather than of human ac- 
cents. We soon heard the rush of the torrent up stairs, and in 
the direction of our chamber. 

“Fear nothing, Julia; her power over you is now at an end 
You are now mine — mine only — mine irrevocably !” 

* Ah, she is still my mother !” gasped the lovely trembler in 


BAFFLED FURY. 


115 


iny arms. A moment more, and the old lady was battering at 
the door. I had locked it within. Her voice, husky but sub 
dued, now called to her daughter — 

“Julia! Julia! Julia! — come out!” 

“ Who is there? what do you want?” I demanded. I was 
disposed to keep her out, but Julia implored me to open the 
door. She had really no strength to reply to the summons of 
the enraged woman ; and her entreaty to me was expressed in 
a whisper which scarcely filled my own ears. She was weak 
almost to fainting. I trembled lest her weakness, coupled with 
her fears, and the stoimy scene that I felt might be reasonably 
anticipated, would be too much for her powers of endurance. I 
hesitated. She put her hand on my wrist. 

“ For my sake, Edward, let her in. Let her see me. We 
will have to meet her, and better now — now, when I feel all 
the solemnity of my new position, and while the pledges I have 
just made are most present to my thoughts. Do not fear for 
me. I am weak and very feeble, but I am resolute. I feel 
that I am not wrong.” 

She could scarcely gasp out these brief sentences. I urged 
her not to risk her strength in the interview. 

“ Ah you love me, do as I beg you,” she replied, with entreat- 
ing earnestness. “ It does not become me to keep my mother, 
under any circumstances, thus waiting at the door, and asking 
entrance.” 

Meanwhile, the clamors of Mrs. Clifford were continued. Ju- 
lia’s aunt was there also, and the controversy was hot and heavy 
between them. Annoyed as I was, and apprehensive for Julia, 
I yet could not forbear laughing at the ludicrousness of my po- 
sition and the whole scene. I began to think, from the equal 
violence of the two ancient dames without, that they might 
finally get to blows. This was also the fear of Julia, and an- 
other reason why we should throw open the door. I at length 
did so ; and soon had the doubtful satisfaction of transferring to 
myself all the wrath of the disappointed mother. She rushed 
in, the moment the door turned upon its hinges, almost upsetting 
me in the violence of her onset. Bounding into the apartment 
with a fury that was utterly beyond her own control, I was led 
to fear that she might absolutely inflict violence upon her daugh- 


116 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

ter, who by this time had sunk, in equal terror and exhaustion, 
upon a sofa in the remotest corner of the room. I hastily placed 
myself between them, and did not scruple, with extended hands, 
to maintain a safe interval of space between the two. I will 
not attempt to describe the tigress rage or the shrieking violence 
which ensued on the part of this veteran termagant. It was 
only closed at length, when, Julia having fainted under the 
storm, dead to all appearance, I picked up the assailant vi et 
armisy and, in defiance of screams and scratches — for she did 
not spare the use of her talons — resolutely transported her from 
the chamber. 


ONE DEBT PAID. 


117 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ONE UKirr PAID. 

StaIiGEU 1N(? forward under tliis burden — a burden equally 
active and heavy — who should I encounter at the bead of the 
stairs, but the liege lord of the lady — my poor imbecile uncle. 
As soon as she beheld him — foaming and almost unintelligible 
in her rage — she screamed for succor — cried “murder” “rape,” 
“robbery,” and heaven knows what besides. A moment be- 
fore, though she scratched and scuffled to the utmost, she had 
not employed her lungs. A momentary imprecation alone had 
broken from her, as it were, perforce and unavoidably. Now, 
nothing could exceed the stentorian tumult which her tongue 
maintained. She called upon her husband to put me to death — 
to tear me in pieces — to do anything and everything for the pun- 
ishing of so dreadful an offender as myself. In thus command- 
ing him, she did not forbear uttering her owm unmeasured opin- 
ion of the demerits of the man wdiose performances she required. 

“ If you had the spirit of a man, Clifford — if you Avere not 
a poor slioat — you’d never have submitted so long as you have 
to this viper’s insolence. And there you stand, doing nothing — 
absolutely still as a stock, though you see him beating your 
wife. Ah ! you monster ! — you coward! — that I should ever 
have married a man that wasn’t able to protect me.” 

This is a sufficient sample of her style, and not the w'orst. I 
am constrained to confess that some portions of the good lady’s 
language would better have suited the inodes of speech common 
enough among the Grecian housekeepers at the celebration of 
the Eleusinian mysteries. I have omitted not a few of the bad 
words, and forborne the repetition of that voluminous eloquence 
poured out, after the Billingsgate fashion, equally upon myself, 
lier daughter, and husband. During the vituperation she stih 
kicked and scuffled; my face suffered, and my eyes narrowly es- 
caped. But I grasped her firmly ; and when her husband, my 
worthy uncle, in obedience to lier orders, sprang upon me, with 


118 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the bludgeon which he now habitually carried, I confronted him 
with the lusty person of his spouse, and regret to say, that the 
first thwack intended for my shoulders, descended with some 
considerable emphasis upon hers. This increased her fury, and 
redoubled her screams. But it did not lessen my determination, 
or make me change my mode of proceeding. I resolutely push- 
ed her before me. The husband stood at the head of the stairs 
and my object was to carry her down to the lower story. The 
stairs were narrow, and by keeping up a good watch, 1 contrived 
to force liim to give ground, using his spouse as a sort of batter- 
ing-rrtw — not to perpetrate a pun at the expense of the genders 
— which, I happened to know, had ahvays been successful in 
making him give ground on all previous occasions. Ilis habitual 
deference for the dame, assisted me in my purpose. Step by 
step, however, he disputed my advance ; but I was finally suc- 
cessful ; without any injury beyond that which had been inflicted 
by the talons of the fair lady, and perhaps a single and slight 
stroke upon the shoulder from the club of her husband, I suc- 
ceeded in landing her upon the lower flat in safety. Beyond a 
squeeze or two, which the exigency of the case made something 
more affectionate than any I should have been otherwise pleased 
to bestow upon her, she suffered no hurt at my hands. 

But, though willing to release her, she was not so willing her- 
self to be released. When I set her free, she flew at me with 
cat-like intrepidity ; and I found her a much more difficult cus- 
tomer than her husband. Him I soon baffled. A moment suf- 
ficed to grapple with him and wrench the stick from his hands, 
and then, with a moderate exercise of agility, I contrived to 
spring up the stairway which I had just descended, regain the 
chamber, and secure the door, before they could overtake or annoy 
me with their further movements. My wife’s aunt, rneanwhile, 
had been busy with her restoratives. Julia was now recovering 
from the fainting fit ; and I had the satisfaction of hearing from 
one of the servants that the baffled enemy had gone off in a fury 
that made their departure seem a flight rather than a mere retreat. 

I should have treated the whole event with indiflerence — their 
rage and their regard equally — but for my suffering and sensitive 
wife. Wronged as she had been, and so persecuted as to render 
all her subsequent conduct justifiable, she yet forgot none of her 


ONE DEBT PAID. 


119 


filial obligations ; and, in compliance with her earnest entreaties, 
I had already, the very day after this conflict, prepared an elab- 
orate and respectful epistle to both father and mother, when an 
event took place of startling solemnity, which was calculated to 
subdue my anger, and make the feelings of my wife, if possible, 
more accessible than ever to the influences of fear and sorrow. 
Only three days from our marriage had elapsed, when her father 
was stricken speechless in the street. He was carried home for 
dead. I have already hinted that, months before, and just after 
the threatened discovery of those fraudulent measures by which 
he lost his fortune, his mind had become singularly enfeebled ; 
his memory failing, and all his faculties of judgment — never very 
strong — growing capricious, or else obtuse and unobserving. 
These were the symptoms of a rapid ])hysical change, tlie catas- 
trophe of which was at hand. How far the excitc'ment growing 
out of his daughter’s flight and mairiage may have; precipitated 
this result, is problematical. It may bc! said, in this place, that 
my wife’s mother charged it all to my account. I was pronounced 
the murderer of her husband. On this luoid 1 did not reproach 
myself. It was necessary, how(?ver, that a reconciliation should 
take place between the father and his child. To this I had, of 
course, no sort of objection. But it will scarce be believed that 
the miserable woman, her mother, opposed herself to their meeting 
with the utmost violence of her cliaracter. Nothing but the 
outcry of the family and all its friends — including the excellent 
j)hysician whose secret services had contributed so much toward 
my happiness — comjielled her to give way, though still un- 
graciously, to the earnest entreaty of her daughter for permission 
to see her father before he died ! and even then, by the death- 
bed of the unhappy and almost unconscious man, she recom- 
menced the scene of abuse and bitter reproach, which, however 
ample the reader and hearer may have already found it, it 
appears she had left unfinished. It was in the midst of a 
furious tirade, directed against myself, chiefly, and Julia, in i)art, 
that the spasms of death, unperceived by the mother, j.'nssed 
over the contracted musch's of tln^ father’s face. The bitter 
SjK-ech of the blind woman — blind of heart — was actually fin- 
ished after death had given the final blow to the victim. Of this 
sh (5 had no suspicion, until instructed by the piercing shrieks of 
her daughter, who fell swooning U| on the corse before her. 


120 


CONFESSION, OR TTTE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XV. 

HONEYMOON PERIOD. 

It was supposed by Julia and certain of her friends that an 
event so solemn, so impressive, and so unexpected, as the death 
of Mr. Clifford, would reasonably affect the mind of his widow ; 
and the concessions whicli I l»ad meditated to address to her- 
self and her late husband were now so varied as to apply solely 
to herself. I took considerable pains in preparing my letter, 
with the view to soften her prejudices and asperities, as well as 
to convince her reason, 'rhcre was one suggestion which Julia 
was disposed to insist on, to which, however, I was singularly 
averse. In the destitutit>n of Mrs. Clifford, her diminished and 
still diminishing resources, not to speak of her loneliness, she 
thought that I ought to tender her a home with us. Had she 
been any other than the captious, cross-grained creature that 
she was — had her misfortunes produced only in part their 
legitimate and desirable effects of sub«luing her perversity — 
I should have had no sort of objection. But I knew her impe- 
rious and unreasonable nature; and I may here add, that, by 
this time, I knew something of my own : I was a man of despotic 
character. The constant conflicts which I had had from boy- 
hood, resulting as they had done in my frequent .successes and 
final triumph, had, naturally enough, made me dictatorial. San- 
guine in temperament, earnest in character, resolute in impulse, 
I was necessarily arbitrary in mood. It was not likely that 
Mrs. Clifford would forget her waywardnesses, and it\vas just 
as unreasonable that I should submit to her in.solences. Be 
sides, one’s homo ought to be a very sacred place. It is neces- 
sary that the peace there should compensate and console for the 
strifes without.^ To hope for this in any household where there 
is more than one master, would be worse than idle. Nay, even 
if there were peace, the chances are still great that there would 


HONEYMOON PERIOD. 


121 


be some lack of propriety. Domestic regulations would become 
inutile. Children and servants would equally fail of duty and 
improvement under conflicting authorities ; and all the sweet 
social harmonies of family would be jarred away by misunder- 
standings if not bickerings, leading to coldness, suspicion, and 
irremediable jealousies. These things seemed to threaten me 
from tlie first moment when Julia submitted to me her desire 
that her mother should be invited to take up her abode with us. 
I reasoned with her against it ; suggested all the grounds of ob- 
jection which I really felt ; and reviewed at length the long his- 
tory of our connection from my childhood up, which had been 
distinguished by her constant hostility and hate. “ How,’* I 
asked, “ can it be hoped that there will be any change for the 
better now? She is the same woman, I the same man ! It is 
not reasonable to think that the result of our reunion will be 
other than it has been.” But Julia implored. 

“ I know what you say is reasonable — is just; but, dear Ed- 
ward, she is my mother, and she is alone.” 

I yielded to her wishes. Could I else ? My letter to her 
mother concluded with a respectful entreaty that she would take 
apartments in our dwelling, and a chair at our table, and lessen, 
to this extent, the expenses of her own establishment. 

“ What !” exclaimed the frenzied woman to Julia’s aunt, to 
whom the charge of presenting the communication was commit- 
ted — “what! eat the bread of that insolent and ungrateful 
wretch ? Never ! never 1” 

She flung the epistle from her with disdain ; and, to confess 
a truth, though, on Julia’s account, I should have wished a 
reconciliation, I was by no means sorry, on my own, that such 
was her ultimatum. I gave myself little further concern about 
this foolish person, and was happy to see that in a short time 
my wife appeared to recover from the sadness and stupor which 
the death of her father and the temper of her mother had natu- 
rally induced. The truth is, she had, for so long a period pre- 
viously to her marriage, suffered from the persecutions of the 
latter, and moaned over the shame and imbecility of the former, 
that her present situation was one of great relief, and, for a 
while, of comparative happiness. 

We lived in a pleasant cottage in the suburbs. A broad and 

C 


122 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


placid lake spread out before our dwelling ; and its tiny billoAvs, 
under the pressure of the sweet southwestern breezes, beat al- 
most against our very doors. Green and shady groves envi- 
roned us on three sides, and sheltered us from the intrusive 
gaze of the highway ; and never was a brighter collection of 
flowers and blossoms clustered around any habitation of hope 
and happiness before. I rented the cottage on moderate terms, 
and furnished it neatly, but simply, as became my resources. 
All things considered, the prospect was fair and promising be- 
fore us. Julia had few toils, and ample leisure for painting and 
music, for both of which she had considerable taste ; for the for- 
mer art, in particular, she possessed no small talent. 

Our city, indeed, seemed one peculiarly calculated for these 
arts. Our sky was blue — deeply, beautifully blue ; our climate 
mild and delightful. Our people were singularly endowed with 
the genius for graceful and felicitous performances. Music was 
an ordinary attribute of the great mass ; and in no community 
under the sun was there such an overflow of talent in painting 
and sculpture. It was the grand error of our wise heads to 
fancy that our city could be made one of gi*eat trade ; and, in a 
vain struggle to give it some commercial superiority over its 
neighbor communities, the wealth of the people was thrown 
away upon projects that yielded nothing ; and the arts were 
left neglected in a region which might have been made — and 
might still be made — if not exclusively, at least pre-eminently 
their own. The ordinary look of the women was beauty, the 
ordinary accent was sweetness. The soft moonlight evenings 
were rendered doubly harmonious by the tender tinkling of the 
wandering guitar, or the tones of the plaintive flute; while, 
from every third dwelling, rose the more stately but scarcely 
sweeter melodies stricken by pliant fingers from the yielding 
soul of the divine piano. The tastes even of the mechanic were 
refined by this language, the purest In which passion evei 
speaks; and an ambition — the result of the highest tone of 
aristocratic influence upon society — prompted his desires to 
purposes and a position to which in other regions he is not often 
permitted to aspire. These influences were assisted by the 
peculiar location of our city — by its suburban freedom from all 
closeness ; its innumerable gardens, the appanage of every 


HONEYMOON PERIOD. 


123 


Iiouseliold ; its piazzas, verandahs, porches; its broad and min- 
strel-wooing rivers; and the majestic and evergreen forests, 
which grew and gatlicrcd around us on every liand. If ever 
tlicre was a city intended by nature more particularly than an- 
other for the abodes and the offices of art, it was ours. It will 
become so yet : the mean, money-loving soul of trade can not 
always keep it from its destinies. We may never see it in our 
day; but so surely -as we live, and as it shall live, will it be- 
come an Athens in our land — a city of empire by the sea, 
renowned for genius and taste — and the chosen retreat of 
muses, younger and more vigorous, and not less lovely, than 
the old ! 

Julia was in a very high degree impregnated with the taste 
and desire for art which seemed so generally the characteristic 
of our people. I speak not now of the degree of skill which 
she possessed. Her teacher was a foreigner, and a mere me- 
chanic; but, while he taught her only the ordinary laws of 
painting, her natural endowment wrought more actively in favor 
of her performances. She soon discovered how much she could 
learn from the little which her teacher knew ; and when she 
made this discovery, she ceased to have any use for his assist- 
ance. Books, the study of the old masters, and such of the new 
as were available to her, served her infinitely more in the prosi 
ecution of her efforts ; and these I stimulated by all means in 
my power : for I esteemed her natural endowments to be very 
high, and very well knew how usual it is for young ladies, after 
marriage, to give up those tastes and accomplishments which 
had distinguished and heightened their previous charms. It 
was quite enough that I admired the art, and tasked her to its 
pursuit, to make her cling to it with alacrity and love. We 
wandered together early in the morning and at the coming on 
of evening, over all the sweet, enticing scenes which were fre- 
quent in our suburbs. Environed by two rivers, wide and clear, 
with deep forests beyond — a broad bay opening upon the sea 
in front — lovely islands of gleaming sand, strewn at pleasant 
intervals, seeming, beneath the transparent moonlight, the cho- 
sen places of retreat for naiads from the deep and fairies from 
the grove — there was no lack of objects to delight the eye and 
woo the pencil to its performances. Besides, never was blue 


124 


CONFESSION, OR THE- BLIND. HEART. 


sky, and gold-and-purple sunset, more frequent, more rich, more 
shifting in its shapes and colors, from beauty to superior beauty, 
than in our latitude. The eye naturally turned up to it with a 
sense of hunger ; the mind naturally felt the wish to record such 
hues and aspects for the use of venerating love ; and the eager 
spirit, beginning to fancy the vision wrought according to its 
own involuntary wish, seemed spontaneously to cry aloud, in 
the language of the artist, on whom the consciousness of genius 
Avas breaking with a sun-burst for the first time, “ I, too, am a 
painter !” 

Julia’s studio was soon full of beginnings. Fragmentary land- 
scapes were all about her. Like most southrons, she did not 
like to finish. There is an impatience of toil — of its duration 
at least — in the southern mind, which leaves it too frequently 
unperforming. This is a natural characteristic of an excitable 
people. People easily moved are always easily diverted from 
their objects. People of very vivid fancy are also very capri- 
cious. There is yet another cause for the non-performance of 
the southern mind — its fastidiousness. In a high state of social 
refinement, the standards of taste become so very exacting, that 
the mind prefers not to attempt, rather than to offend that criti- 
cal judgment which it feels to be equally active in its analysis 
and rigid in its requisitions. Genius and ambition must be in- 
dependent of such restraints. “ Be bold, be bold, be bold !” is 
the language of encouragement in Spenser ; and when he says, 
at the end, “ Be not too bold,” we are to consider the qualifica- 
tion as simply a quiet caution not to allow proper courage to 
rush into rashness and insane license. The genius that suffers 
itself to be fettered by the 'precise, will perhaps learn how to 
polish marble, but will never make it live, and will certainly 
never live very long itself ! 

With books and music, painting and flowers, we passed the 
happy moments of the honeymoon. I yielded as little of my- 
self and my mind to my office and clients, in that period, as I 
possibly could. My cottage was my paradise. My habits, as 
might be inferred from my history, Avere singularly domestic. 
Doomed, as I had been, from my earliest years, to know neither 
friends nor parents ; isolated, in my infancy, from all those ten- 
der ties which impress upon the heart, for all succeeding years. 


HONEYMOON PERIOD. 


125 


tokens of the most endearing affection ; denied tlie smiles of 
those who yet filled my constant sight — my life was a long 
yearning for things of love — for things to love! While the 
struggle continued between Julia’s parents and myself, though 
confiding in her love, I had yet no confidence in my own hope 
to realize and to secure it. Now that it was mine — mine, at 
last — I grew uxorious in its contemplation. Like the miser, I 
had my treasure at home, and I hastened home to survey it 
with precisely the same doubts, and hopes, and fears, which the 
disease of avarice prompts in the unhappy heart of its victim. 
To this disease, in chief, I have to attribute' all my future sor- 
rows ; but the time is not yet for that. It is my joys now that 
I have to contemplate and describe. How I dwelt, and how I 
dreamed ! how I seemed to tread on air, in the unaccustomed 
fullness of my spirit ! how my whole soul, given up to the one 
pursuit, I fondly fancied had secured its object! I fancied — 
nay, for the time, I was happy ! Surely, T was happy ! 


126 


CONFESSION, on THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE HAPPY SEASON. 

SuKELY, 1 tlieu was happy ! I can not deceive myself as to 
the character of those brief Eden moments of security and peace. 
Even now, lone as I appear in the sight of others — degraded 
as I feel myself — even now I look back on our low white cot- 
tage, by the shores of that placid lake — its little palings gleam- 
ing sweetly through its dense green foliage — recall those happy, 
halcyon days, and feel that we both, for the time, had attained 
the secret — the secret worth all the rest — of an enjoyment 
actually felt, and quite as full, flush, and satisfactory, as it had 
seemed in the perspective. Possession had taken nothing of 
the gusto from hope. Truth had not impaired a single beauty 
of the ideal. I looked in Julia’s face at morning when I awa- 
kened, and her loveliness did not fade. My lips, that drank 
sweetness from hers, did not cease to believe the sweetness to 
be there — as pure, as warm, as full of richness, as when I hsc 
only dreamed of their perfections. Our days and nights were 
pure, and gentle, and fond. One twenty-four hours shall speak 
for all. 

When we rose at morning, we prepared for a ramble, either 
into the woods, or along the banks of the lovely river that lay 
west of, and at a short distance only from, our dwelling. There, 
wandering, as the sun rose, we imparted to each other’s eyes 
the several objects of beauty which his rising glance betrayed. 
Sometimes we sat beneath a tree, while she hurriedly sketched 
a clump of woods, the winding turn of the shore, its occasional 
crescent form or abrupt headland, as they severally appeared 
in a new light, and at a happy moment of time, beneath our 
vision. The songs of pleasant birds allured us on • the sweet 
scent of pines and myrtle refreshed us ; and a gay, wholesome, 
hearty spirit was awakened in our mutual bosoms, as thus, dry 


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THE HAPPY SEASON. 


127 


after clay, wliile, like the d^vy, our hearts were in their first 
youth, we resorted to the ever- fresh mansions of the sovereign 
Nature. This habit produces purity of feeling, and continues 
the liabit in its earliest simplicity. The childlike laws which 
it encourages and strengthens are those which virtue most loves, 
and which strained forms of society are the first to overthrow. 
The pure tastes of youth are those which are always most dear 
to humanity ; and love is easy of access, and peace not often a 
stranger to the mind, where these tastes preserve their ascen- 
dency. 

My profession was something at variance with these tastes 
and feelings. The very idea of law, which presupposes the 
frequent occurrence of injustice, engenders, by its practice, a 
habit of suspicion. To throw doubt upon the fact, and defeat 
and prevent convictions of the probable, are habits which law- 
yers soon acquire. This is natural from the daily encounter 
with bad and striving men — men who employ the law as an 
instrument by Avhich to evade right, or inflict wrong; and, this 
apart, the acute mind loves, for its own sake, the very exercise 
of doubt, by which ingenuity is put in practice, and an adroit 
discrimination kept constantly at work. 

I was saved, however, from something of this danger. The 
injustice Avhich I had been subjected to, in my own boyhood, 
had filled me with the keenest love for the right. The idea of 
injustice aroused my sternest feelings of resistance. I had 
adopted the law as a profession with something of a patriotic 
feeling. I felt that I could make it an instrument for putting 
down the oppressor, the wrong-doer • — for asserting right, and 
maintaining innocence ! I had my admiration, too, at that 
period, of that logical astuteness, that wonderful tenacity of 
hold and pursuit, and discrimination of attribute and subject, 
which distinguish this profession beyond all others, and seem 
to confirm the assumption made in its behalf, by which it has 
been declared the perfection of human reason. It will not bo 
subtracting anything from this estimate, if I express my con- 
viction, founded upon my own experience, that, though such 
may be the character of the law as an abstract science, it de- 
serves no such encomium as it is ordinarily practised. Lawyers 
are too commonly profound only in the teclinicalities of the 


128 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


profession ; and a very keen study and acquaintance with these 
— certainly a too great reliance upon them, and upon the dicta 
of other lawyers — leads to a dreadful departure from elemen- 
tary principles, and a most woful disregard, if not ignorance, of 
those profounder sources of knowledge without which laws mul- 
tiply at the expense of reason, and not in support of it ; and 
lawyers may be compared to those ignorant captains to Avhom 
good ships are intrusted, who rely upon continual sounding to 
grope their way along the accustomed shores. Let them once 
leave the shores, and get beyond the reach of their plummets, 
and the good ship must owe its safety to fortune and the favor 
of the winds, for further skill is none. 

I did not find the practice of the law aifect my taste for do- 
mestic pleasures ; on the contrary, it stimulated and preserved 
them. After toiling a whole morning in the courts, it was a 
sweet reprieve to be allowed to hurry off to my quiet cottage, 
and hear the one dear voice of my household, and examine the 
quiet pictures. These never stunned me with clamors ; I was 
never pestered by them to determine the meum el tuum between 
noisy disputants, neither of whom is exactly right. There, 
my eye could repose on the sweetest scenes — scenes of beauty 
and freshness — the shady verdure of the woods, the rich va- 
riety of flowers, and pure, cairn, transparent waters, hallowed 
by the meek glances of the matron moon. No creature could 
have been more gentle than my wife. She met me with a com- 
posed smile, equally bright and meek. I never heard a com- 
plaint from her lips. The evils of which other men complain 
— the complaints about servants, scoldings about delay or din- 
ner — never reached my ears. The kindest solicitude that, in 
my fatigue, or amid the toils of a business of which wives can 
know little, and for which they make too little allowance, there 
should be nothing at home to make me irritable or give me dis- 
quiet, distinguished equally her sense and her affection. If it 
became her duty to communicate any unpleasant intelligence — 
any tidings vhich might awaken anger or impatience — she 
carefully waited for the proper time, when the excitement of 
my blood was overcome, and repose of blood and brain had nat- 
urally brought about a kindred composure of mind. 

Our afternoons were usually spent in the shade of the garden 


THE HAPPY SEASON. 


129 


or piazza. Sometimes, I sat by her while she was sketching. 
At others, she helped me to dress and train my garden-vines. 
Now and then we renewed our rambles of the morning, heed- 
fully observing the different aspects of the same scenes and 
objects, which had then* delighted us, under the mellowing 
smiles of the sun at its decline. With books, music, and chess, 
our evenings passed away without our consciousness ; .and day 
melted into night, and night departed and gave place to the 
new-born day, as quietly as if life had, in truth, become to us a 
great instrument of harmony, which bore us over the smooth 
seas of Time, to the gentle beating of fairy and unseen min- 
strelsy. Truly, then, we were two happy children. The older 
children of this world, stimulated by stronger tastes and more 
lofty indulgences, may smile at the infantile simplicity of such 
resources and modes of enjoyment. They were childish, but 
perhaps not the less wise for that. Infancy lies very near to 
heaven. Childhood is a not unfit study for angels ; and happy 
were it for us could we maintain the hearts and the hopes of that 
innocent period for a longer day within our bosoms. In our 
world we groV too fast, too presumptuously. We live on too 
rich food, moral and intellectual. The artifices of our tastes 
prove most fatally the decline of our reason. But, for us — we 
two linked hearts, so segregated from all beside — we certainly 
lived the lives of children for a while. But we were not to 
live thus always. In some worldly respects, I was still a child : 
I cared little for its pomps, its small honors, its puny efforts, its 
tinselly displays. But I had vices of mind — vices of my own 
— sufficient to embitter the social world where all seems now 
so sweet — where all, in truth, was sweet, and pure, and worthy 

and which might, under other circumstances, have been kept 

so to the last. I am now to describe a change ! 

6 * 


130 


CONFESSION, OR THE BUND HEART. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 

Heretofore, I have spoken of the blind hearts of others - 
of Mr. Clifford and his wilful wife — I have yet said little to 
show the blindness of my own. This task is now before me, 
and, with whatever reluctance, the exhibition shall resolutely 
he made. I have described a couple newlywed — eminently 
happy. — blessed with tolerable independence — resources from 
without and within — dwelling in the smiles of Heaven, and 
not uncheered by the friendly countenance of man. I am to 
display the cloud, which hangs small at first, a mere speck, but 
which is to grow to a gloomy tempest that is swallow up 
the loveliness of the sky, and blacken with gloom and sorrow 
the fairest aspects of the earth. I am to show the worm in the 
bud which is to bring blight — the serpent in the garden which 
is to spoil the Eden. Wo, beyond all other woes, that this ser- 
pent should be engendered in one’s own heart, producing its 
blindness, and finally working its bane ! Yet, so it is ! The 
story is a painful one to tell ; the task is one of self-humiliation. 
But the truth may inform others — may warn, may strengthen, 
may save — before their hearts shall be utterly given up to that 
blindness which must end in utter desperation and irretrievable 
overthrow. 

If the reader has not been utterly unmindful of certain moral 
suggestions which have been thrown out passingly in my pre- 
vious narrative, he will have seen that, constitutionally, I am 
of an ardent, impetuous temper — an active mind, ready, ear- 
nest, impatient of control — seeking the difficult for its own 
Bake, and delighting in the conquest which is unexpected by 
others. 

Such a nature ismsually frank and generous It believes in 


THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 


131 


the affections — it depends upon them. It freely gives its own, 
but challenges the equally free and spontaneous gift of yours 
in return. It has little faith in the things which fill the hearts 
of the mere worldlings. Worldly honors may delight it, but 
not worldly toys. It has no veneration for gewgaws. The 
shows of furniture and of dress it despises. The gorgeous equi- 
page is an encumbrance to it ; the imposing jewel it would not 
wear, lest it might subtract something from that homage which 
it prefers should be paid to the wearer. It is all selfish — 
thoroughly selfish — but not after the world’s fashion of selfish- 
ness. It hoards nothing, and gives quite as much as it asks. 
What does it ask? What? It asks for lave — devoted attach- 
ment ; the homage of the loved one and the friends ; the im- 
plicit confidence of all around it ! Ah ! can anything be more 
exacting ? Cruelly exacting, if it be not worthy of that it asks ! 

Imagine such a nature, denied from the beginning ! The 
parents of its youth are gone! — the brother and the sister — 
the father and the friend ! It is destitute, utterly, of these 1 
It is also destitute of those resources of fortune which are sup- 
posed to be sufficient to command them. It is thrown upon the 
protection, the charge of strangers. Not strangers — no ! From 
strangers, perhaps, but little could be expected. It is thrown 
upon the care of relatives — a father’s brother! Could the tie 
be nearer ? Not well ! But it had been better if strangers had 
been its guardians. Then it might have learned to endure more 
patiently. At least, it would have felt less keenly the pangs 
inflicted by neglect, contumely, injustice. In this situation it 
grows up, like some sapling torn from its parent forest, its 
branches hacked off, its limbs lacerated ! It grows up in a 
stranger-soil. The sharp winds assail it from every quarter. 
But still it lives — it grows. It grows wildly, rudely, ungrace- 
fully ; but it is strong and tough, in consequence of its exposure 
and its trials. Its vitality increases with every collision which 
shakes and rends it ; until, in the pathetic language of relatives 
unhappily burdened with such encumbrances, “ it seems impos- 
sible to kill it !” 

I will not say that mine tried to kill me, but I do say that 
they took precious little care that I was not killed. The effect 
upon mv body was good, however — the effect of their indiffer- 


132 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


ence. This roughening process is a part of physical training 
which very few parents understand. It is essential — should 
be insisted on — but it must not be accompanied with a moral 
roughening, which forces upon the mind of the pupil the con- 
viction that the ordeal is meant for his destruction rather than 
for his good. There will be a recoil of the heart — a cruel 
recoil from the humanities — if such a conviction once fills the 
mind. It was this recoil which I felt ! With warm afiections 
seeking for objects of love — with feelings of hope and venera- 
tion, imploring for altars to which to attach themselves — I was 
commanded to go alone. The wilderness alone was open to 
me : what w'onder if my heart grew wild and capricious even 
as that of the savage who dwells only amid their cheerless re- 
cesses ? With a smile judiciously bestowed — with a kind word, 
a gentle tone, an occasional voice of earnest encouragement — 
my uncle and aunt might have fashioned my heart at their 
pleasure. I should have been as clay in the hands of the pot- 
ter — a pliant willow in the grasp of the careful trainer. A na- 
ture constituted like mine is, of all others, the most flexible ; 
but it is also, of all others, the most resisting and incorrigible. 
Approach it with a judicious regard to its affections, and you 
do with it what you please. Let it but fancy that it is the vic- 
tim of your injustice, however slight, and the war is an intermi- 
nable one between you ! 

Thus did I learn the first lessons of suspiciousness. They 
attended me to the schoolliouse ; they governed and made me 
watchful there. The schoolhonst?., the play-places — the very 
regions of earnest faith and unlimited confidence — produced 
no such effects in me. They might have done so, had I ceased, 
on going to school, to see my relatives any longer. But the 
daily presence of n'ly uncle and aunt, with their system of con- 
tinned injustice, at length rendered my suspicious moods habit- 
ual. I became shy. I approached nobody, or approached them 
with doubt and watchfulness. I learned, at the earliest period, 
to look into character, to analyze conduct, to pry into the mys- 
terious involutions of the working minds around me. I traced, 
or fancied that I traced, the performance to the unexpressed and 
secret motive in which it had its origin. I discovered, or be- 
lieved that I discovered, that the world was divided into ban- 


THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 


133 


(litti and hypocrites. At that day I made little allowance for 
the existence of that larger class than all, who happen to be the 
victims. Unless this were the larger class, the other two must 
very much and very rapidly diminish. My infant philosophy 
did not carry me very deeply into the recesses of my own heart. 
It was enough that I felt some of its dearest rights to be out- 
raged — I did not care to inquire whether it was altogether 
right itself. 

At length, there was a glimpse of dawn amid all this dark 
ness. The world was not altogether evil. All hearts were not 
shut against me ; and in the sweet smiles of Julia Clifford, in 
her kind attentions, soothing assurances, and fond entreaties, 
there was opportunity, at last, for my feelings to overflow. 
Like a mountain-stream long pent up, which at length hreakfc' 
through its confinements, my affections rushed into the grateful 
channel which her pliant heart afforded me. They were wild, 
and strong, and devoted, in proportion to their long denial and 
restraint. Was it not natural enough that I should love with 
no ordinary attachment- — that my love should be an impetuous 
torrent — all-devoted — struggling, striving — rushing only in 
the one direction — believing, in truth, that there was noiw 
other in the world in which to run ? 

This was a natural consequence of the long sophistication o> 
my feelings. I knew nothing of the world — of society. I had 
shared in none of its trusts ; I had only felt its exactions. Like 
some country-boy, or country -girl, for the first time brought into 
the great world, I surrendered myself wholly to the first grah 
fied impulse. I made no conditions, no qualifications. I set 
all my hopes of heart upon a single cast of the die, and did no- 
ask what might be the consequences if the throw was unfoi 
tunate. 

One of the good effects of a free communication of the youn^ 
with society is, to lessen the exacting nature of the affectiont 
People who live too much to themselves — in their own centre, 
and for their own single objects — become fastidious to disease. 
They ask too much from their neighbors. Willing to surrendci 
their own affections at a glance, they fancy the world wantinj; 
in sensibility when they find that their readiness in this "espect 
fails to produce a corresponding readiness in others. This is 


134 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the natural history of that enthusiasm Avhich is thrown back 
upon itself and is chilled by denial. The complaint of coldness 
and selfishness against the world is very common among very 
young or very inexperienced men. The world gets a bad char 
acter, simply because it refuses to lavish its affections along the 
highways — simply because it is cautious in giving its trusts, and 
expects proofs of service and actual sympathy rather than pro- 
fessions. Men like myself, of a warm, impetuous nature, com- 
plain of the heartlessness of mankind. They fancy themselves 
peculiarly the victims of an unkind destiny in this respect ; and 
finally cut their throats in a moment of frenzy, or degenerate 
into a cynicism that delights in contradictions, in sarcasms, in 
self-torture, and the bitterest hostility to their neighbors. 

Society itself is the only and best corrective of this unhappy 
disposition. The first gift to the young, therefore, should be 
the gift of society. By this word society, however, I do not 
mean a set, a clique, a pitiable little circle. Let tlie sphere of 
movement be sufficiently extended — as large as possible — that 
the means of observation and thought may be sufficiently com- 
prehensive, and no influences from one man or one family shall 
be suftered to give the bias to the immature mind and inexpe- 
rienced judgment. In society like this, the errors, prejudices, 
weaknesses, of one man, are corrected by a totally opposite 
form of character in another. The mind of the youth hesitates. 
Hesitation brings circumspection, watchfulness ; watchfulness, 
discrimination ; discrimination, choice ; and a capacity to choose 
implies the attainment of a certain degree of deliberateness and 
judgment with which the youth may be permitted to go upon 
his way, supposed to be provided for in tlie difficult respect of 
being able henceforward to take care of himself. 

I had no society — knew nothing of society — saw it at a 
distance, under suspicious circumstances, and was myself an 
object of its suspicion. Its attractions were desirable to me, 
but seemed unattainable. It required some sacrifices to obtain 
its entree, and these sacrifices were the very ones which my 
independence would not allow me to make. My independence 
was my treasure, duly valued in proportion to the constant 
strife by which it was assailed. I had that ! Thai could not 
be taken from me. That kept me from sinking into the slave, 


THE EVIL PRINCIPLE. 


135 


the tool, the sycophant, perhaps the brute ; that prompted me 
to hard .study in secret places; that strengthened my heart, 
when, desolate and striving against necessity, I saw nothing of 
the smiles of society, and felt nothing of the bounties of life. 
Then came my final emancipation — my success — my triumph ! 
My independence was assailed no longer. My talents were no 
longer doubted or denied. My reluctant neighbors sent in their 
adhesion. My uncle forbore his sneers. Lastly, and now — 
Jxilia was mine ! My heart’s desires were all gratified as com- 
pletely as my mind’s ambition ! 

Was I happy ? The inconsiderate mind will suppose this 
very probable — will say, I should be. But evil seeds that are 
planted in the young heart grow up with years — not so rapidly 
or openly as to offend — and grow to be poisonous weeds with 
maturity. My feelings were too devoted, too concentrative, too 
all-absorbing, to leave me happy, even when they seemed grati- 
fied. The man who has but a single jewel in the world, is very 
apt to labor under a constant apprehension of its loss. He who 
knows but one object of attachment — whose heart’s devotion 
turns evermore but to one star of all the countless thousands in 
the heavens — wo is he, if that star be shrouded from his gaze 
in the sudden overflow of storms! — still more wo is he, when 
that star withdraws, or seems to withdraw, its corresponding 
gaze, or turns it elsewhere upon another worshipper ! See you 
not the danger which threatened me ? See you not that, never 
having been beloved before — never having loved but the one' 
— I loved that one with all my heart, with all my soul, with all 
my strength ; and required from that one the equal love of heart, 
soul, strength] See you not that my love — linked with impa- 
tient mind, imperious blood, impetuous enthusiasm, and suspi- 
cious fear — was a devotion exacting as the grave — searching 
as fever — as jeiilous of the thing whose worship it demands as 
God is said to be of ours % 

Mine was eminently a jealous heart ! On this subject of 
jealousy, men rarely judge correctly. They speak of Othello 
as jealous — Othello, one of the least jealous of all human na- 
tures ! Jealousy is a quality that needs no cause. It makes 
its own cause. It will find or make occasion for its exercise, 
in the most innocent circumstances. The 'proofs that made 


136 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Othello wretched and revengeful, were sufficient to have de- 
ceived any jury under the sun. He had proofs. He had a 
strong case to go upon. It would have influenced any judg- 
ment. He did not seek or find these proofs for himself. He 
did not wish to find them. He was slow to see them. His was 
not jealousy. His error was that of pride and self-esteem. He 
was outraged in both. His mistake was in being too prompt of 
action in a case which admitted of deliberation. This was the 
error of a proud man, a soldier, prompt to decide, prompt to act, 
and to punish if necessary. But never was human char.acter 
less marked by a jealous mood than that of Othello. His great 
self-esteem was, of itself, a sufficient security against jealousy 
Mine might have been, had it not been so terribly diseased by 
ill-training. 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


137 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

PRESENTIMENTS. 

Without apprehending the extent of my own weakness, the 
forms that it would take, or the tyrannies that it would inflict, 
I was still not totally uninformed on the subject of my peculiar 
character ; and, fearing then rather that I might pain my wife 
by some of its wanton demonstrations, than that she would ever 
furnish me with an occasion for them, I took an opportunity, a 
few evenings after our marriage, to suggest to her the necessity 
of regarding my outbreaks with an indulgent eye. 

My heart had been singularly softened by the most touching 
associations. We sat together in our piazza, beneath a flood 
of the richest and balmiest moonlight, screened only from its 
silvery blaze by interposing masses of the woodbine, mingled 
with shoots of oleander, arbor-vitie, and other shrub-trees. The 
mild breath of evening sufliced only to lift quiveringly their 
green leaves and glowing blossoms, to stir the hair upon our 
cheeks, and give to the atmosphere that wooing freshness wliich 
seems so necessary a concomitant of the moonlight. The hand 
of Julia was in mine. There were few words spoken between 
us ; love has its own suflicing language, and is content with that 
consciousness that all is right which implores no other assu- 
rances. Julia had just risen from the piano : we had both been 
touched with a deeper sense of the thousand harmonies in na- 
ture, by listening to those of Rossini ; and now, gazing upon 
sf*me transparent, fleecy, white clouds that were slowly pressing 
forward in the path of the moonlight, as if in duteous attendance 
upon some maiden queen, our mutual minds were busied in 
framing pictures from the fine yet fantastic forms that glowed, 
gathering on our gaze. I felt the hand of Julia trembling in 


138 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


my own. Her head sank upon my shoulder ; I felt a warm 
drop fall from her eyes upon my hand, and exclaimed — 

“ Julia, you weep ! wherefore do you weep, dear wife 

“ With joy, my husband ! My heart is full of joy. I am so 
happy, I can only weep. Ah ! tears alone speak for the true 
happiness.” 

“ Ah ! would it last, Julia — would it last !” 

“ Oh, doubt not that it will last. Why should it not ? What 
have we to fear ?” 

Mine was a serious nature. I answered sadly, if not gloom- 
ily: — 

“Because it is a joy of life that we feel, and it must share 
the vicissitudes of life.” 

“ True, true, but love is a joy of eternal life as well as of 
this.” 

There was a beautiful and consoling truth in this one little 
sentence, which my self-absorption was too great, at the time, 
to suffer me to see. Perhaps even she herself was not fully 
conscious of the glorious and pregnant truth which lay at the 
ottom of what she said. Love is, indeed, not merely « joy of 
eternal life : it is the joy of eternal life ! — its particular joy — 
a dim shadow of which we Gometimes feel in this — pure, last- 
ing, comparatively perfect, the more it approaches, in its per- 
formances and its desires, the divine essence, of which it is so 
poor a likeness. We should so live, so love, as to make the one 
run into the other, even as a small river runs down, through a 
customary channel, into the great dee])S! of the sea. - Death 
should be to the affections a mere channel) through which they 
pass into a natural, a necessary condition, where tlieir streams 
flow with more freedom, and over which, harmoniously control- 
ling, as powerful, the spirit of love broods ever witli “ dovelike 
wings outspread.” I answered, still gloomily, in the customary 
world commonplaces : — 

“We must expect the storm. It will not be moonlight al- 
ways. We must look for the cloud. Age, sickness, death ! — 
ah ! do these not follow on our footsteps, ever unerring, certain 
always, but so often rapid 1 Soon, how soon, they haunt us in 
the happiest moments — they meet us at every corner ! They 
never altogether leave us.” 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


139 


‘‘Enoiigli, dear husband. Dwell not upon these gloomy 
thoughts. Ah! why should you — nowV 

“ I will not ; but there are others, Julia.” 

“ What others ? Evils ?” 

“ Sadder evils yet than these.” 

“ Oh, no I — I hope not.” 

“ Coldness of the once Avarm heart. The chill of affection in 
the loved one. Estrangement — indifference 1 — ah, Julia 1” 

“ Impossible, Edward 1 This can not, must not be, with us. 
You do not think that I could be cold to you; and you — ah ! 
surely you will never cease to love me 1” 

‘‘Never, I trust, never !” 

“No! you must not — shall not. Oh, Edward, let me die 
first before such a fear should fill my breast. You I love, as 
none was loved before. Without your love, I am nothing. If 
I can not hang upon you, Avhere can I hang ?” 

And she clung to me with a grasp as if life and death de- 
pended on it, while her sobs, as from a full heart, Avere insup- 
pressible in spite of all her efforts. 

“ Fear nothing, dearest Julia : do you not believe that I lo\'e 
you V’ 

“ Ah 1 if I did not, Edward — ” 

“ It is Avith you ahvays to make me love you. You are as 
completely the mistress of my whole heart as if it had acknoAvl- 
edged no laws but yours from the beginning.” 

“ What am I to do, dear EdAvard ?” 

“ Forbear — be indulgent — pity me and spare me !” 

“ What mean you, Edward V’ 

“ That heart Avhich is all and only yours, Julia, is yet, I am 
assured, a wilful and an erring heart ! I feel that it is strange, 
wayAvard, sometimes unjust to others, frequently to itself. It 
is a cross-grained, capricious heart ; you Avill find its exactions 
irksome.” 

“ Oh, I knoAv it better. You wrong yourself.” 

“No! In the solemn sweetness of this hour, dear Julia — 
noAV, AAdiile all things are SAveet to our eyes, all things dear to 
our affections — I feel a chill of doubt and apprehension come 
over me. I am so ha^Apy — so unusually happy — that I can 
not feel sure that I am so — that my happiness Avill continue 


140 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


long. I will try, on my own part, to do nothing by which to 
risk its loss. But I feel that I am too wilful, at times, to he 
strong in keeping a resolution which is so very necessary to our 
mutual happiness. You must help — you must strengthen me, 
Julia.” 

“ Oh, yes ! but how ? I will do anything — be anything.” 

“ I am capricious, wayward ; at times, full of injustice. Love 
me not less that I am so — that I sometimes show this wayward- 
ness to you — that I sometimes do injustice to your love. Beai‘ 
with me till the dark mood passes from my heart, I have these 
moods, or have had them, frequently. It may be — I trust it 
will be — that, blessed with your love, and secure in its posses- 
sion, there will be no room in my heart for such ugly feelings. 
But I know not. They sometimes take supreme possession of 
me. They seize upon me in all places. They wrap my spirit 
as in a cloud. I sit apart. I scowl upon those around me. I 
feel moved to say bitter things — to shoot darts in defiance at 
every glance — to envenom every sentence which I speak. 
These are cruel moods. I have striven vainly to shake them 
off. They have grown up with my growth — have shared in 
whatever strength I have ; and, while they embitter my own 
thoughts and happiness, I dread that they will fling their shadow 
upon yours !” 

She replied with gayety, with playfulness, but there was an 
effort in it. 

“ Oh, you make the matter waise than it is. I suppose all 
that troubles you is the blues. But you will never have them 
again. When I see them coming on I will sit by you and sing 
to you. We will come out here and watch the evening; or you 
shall read to me, or we will ramble in the garden — or — a thou- 
sand things which shall make you forget that there was ever 
such a thing in the world as sorrow.” 

“Dear Julia — will you do this?” 

“More — everything to make you happy.” And she drew 
me closer in her embrace, and her lips with a tremulous, almost 
convulsive sweetness, were pressed upon my forehead ; and cling- 
ing there, oh ! how sweetly did she weep ! 

“ You will tire of my waywardness — of my exactions. Ah ! 
I shall force you from my side by my caprice.” 


PRESENTIMENTS. 


141 


“ You can not, Edward, if you would,” she replied, in mournful 
accents like my own, “ I have no remedy against you ! I have 
nobody now to whom to turn. Have I not driven all from my 
side — all but you ?” 

It was my task to soothe her now. 

“ Nay, Julia, be not you sorrowfui. You must continue glad 
and blest, that you may conquer my sullen moods, my dark pre- 
sentiments. When I tell you of the evils of my temper, I tell 
you of occasional clouds only. Heaven forbid that they should 
give an enduring aspect to our heavens ! 

She responded fervently to my ejaculation. I continued: — 

** I have only sought to prepare you for the management of 
my arbitrary nature, to keep you from suffering too much, and 
sinking beneath its exactions. You will bear with me patiently. 
Forgive me for my evil hours. Wait till the storm has over- 
blown ; and find me your own, then, as much as before ; and let 
me feel that you are still mine — that the tempest has not sep- 
arated our little vessels.” 

Will I not 't Ah ! do not fear for me, Edward. It is a hap- 
piness for me to weep here — here, in your arms. When you 
are sad and moody, I will come as now.” 

“ What if I repulse you?” 

“ You will not — no, no ! — you will not.” 

“ But if I do ? Suppose ” 

“ Ah ! it is hard to suppose that. But I will not heed it. I 
will come again.” 

“ And again V 

“ And again !” 

“ Then you will conquer, Julia. I feel that you will conquer ! 
You will drive out the devils. Surely, then, I shall be incor- 
rigible no longer.” 

Such was my conviction then. I little knew myself. 


142 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DISTRUST. 

I LITTLE knew myself ! This knowledge of one’s self is the 
most important knowledge, which very few of us acquire. W e 
seldom look into our own hearts for other objects than those 
which will administer to their petty vanities and passing tri- 
umphs. Could we only look there sometimes for the truth ! 
But we are blind — blind all ! In some respects I was one of 
the blindest ! 

I have given a brief glimpse of our honeymoon. Perhaps, as 
tlie world goes, the picture is by no means an attractive one. 
Quiet felicity forms but a small item in the sources of happiness, 
now-a-days, among young couples. Mine was sufficiently quiet 
and sufficiently humble. One would suppose that he who builds 
so lowly should have no reason to apprehend the hurricane. 
Social ambition was clearly no object with either of us. We 
sighed neither for the glitter nor the regards of fashionable life. 
Neither upon fine houses, jewels, or equipages, did we set our 
hearts. For the pleasures of the table I had no passion, and 
never was young woman so thoroughly regardless of display as 
Julia Clifford. To be let alone — to be suffered to escape in our 
own way, unharming, unharmed, through the dim avenues of life 
— was assuredly all that we asked from man. Perhaps — I say 
it without cant — this, perhaps, was all that we possibly asked 
from heaven. This was all that I asked, at least, and this was 
much. It was asking what had never yet been accorded to hu- 
manity. In the vain assumption of my heart I thought that my 
demands were moderate. 

Let no man console himself with the idea that his chances of 
success are multiplied in degree with the insignificance, or seem- 
ing insignificance, of his aims. Perhaps'the very reverse of this 


DISTRUST. 


143 


is the truth. He who seeks for many objects of enjoyment — 
whose tastes are diversified — has probably the very best prospect 
that some of them may be gratified. He is like the merchant 
whose ventures on the sea are divided among many vessels. He 
may lose one or more, yet preserve the main bulk of his fortune 
from the wreck. But he who has only a single bark — one freight- 
age, however costly — whose whole estate is invested in the one 
venture — let him lose that, and all is lost. It does not matter 
that his loss, speaking relatively, is but little. Suppose his 
shipment, in general estimation, to be of small value. The loss 
to him is so much the greater. It was the dearer to him because 
of its insignificance, and being all that he had ; is quite as con- 
clusive of his ruin, as would be the foundering of every vessel 
which the rich merchant sent to sea. 

I was one of these petty traders. I invested my whole capital 
of the affections in one precious jewel. Did I lose it, or simply 
fear its loss ? Time must show. But, of a truth, I felt as the 
miser feels with his hoarded treasure. While I watched its 
richness and beauty, doubts and dread beset me. Was it safe? 
Everything depended upon its security. Thieves might break 
in and steal. Enough, for the present, to say, that much of my 
security, and of the security of all who, like me, possess a dear 
treasure, depends upon our convictions of security. He who 
apprehends loss, is already robbed. The reality is scarcely 
worse than the hourly anticipation of it. 

My friends naturally became the visiters of my family. Cer- 
tain of the late Mrs. Clifford’s friends were also ours. Our cir- 
cle was sufficiently large for those who already knew how to 
distinguish between the safe pleasures of a small set, and the 
horse-play and heartless enjoyments of fashionable jams. Were 
we permitted in this world to live only for ourselves, we should 
have been perfectly gratified had this been even less. W e should 
have been very well content to have gone on from day to day 
without ever beholding the shadow of a stranger upon our 
threshold. 

This was not permitted, however. We had a round of con- 
gratulatory visits. Among those who came, the first were the 
old, long-tried friends to whom I cwed so much — the Edgertons. 
No family could have been more truly amiable than this ; and 


144 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


William Edgerton was the most amiable of the family. I have 
already said enough to persuade the reader that he was a very 
worthy man. He was more. He was a principled one. Not 
very highly endowed, perhaps, he was yet an intelligent gentle- 
man. None could be more modest in expression — none less ob- 
trusive in deportment — none more generous in service. The 
defects in his character were organic — not moral. He had no 
vices — no vulgarities. But his temperament was an inactive 
one. He was apt to be sluggish, and when excited was nervous. 
He was not irritable, but easily discomposed. His tastes were 
active at the expense of his genius. With ability, he was yet 
unperforming. His standards were morbidly fastidious. Fearing 
to fall below them, he desisted until the moment of action was 
passed for ever ; and the feeling of his own weakness, in this 
respect, made him often sad, but to do him justice, never 
querulous. 

With a person so constituted, the delicate tastes and sensibil- 
ities are like to be indulged in a very high degree. William 
Edgerton loved music and all the quiet arts. Painting was his 
particular delight. He himself sketched with great spirit. He 
had the happy eye for the tout ensemble in a fine landscape. Ho 
knew exactly how much to take in and w^hat to leave out, in the 
delineation of a lovely scene. This is a happy talent for dis- 
crimination which the ordinary artist does not possess. It is tho 
capacity which, in the case of orators and poets, informs them of 
the precise moment when they should stop. It is the happiest 
sort of judgment, since, though the artist may be neither very 
excellent in drawing, nor very felicitous in color, it enables 
him always to bestow a certain propriety on his picture which 
compensates, to a certain degree, for inferiority in other respects. 
To know how to grasp objects with spirit, and bestow them 
with a due regard to mutual dependence, is one of the most ex- 
quisite faculties of the landscape-painter. 

William Edgerton, had he been forced by necessity to have 
made the art of painting his profession would have made for him- 
self a reputation of no inferior kind. But amateur art, like ama- 
teur literature, rarely produces any admirable fruits. Complete 
success only attends the devotee to the muse. The worship must 
be exclusive at her altar ; the attendance constant and unremit- 


DISTRUST. 


145 


ting. There must be no partial, no divided homage. She is a 
jealous mistress, like all the rest. The lover of her charms, 
if he would secure her smiles, must be a profcswr at her 
shrine. He can not come and go at pleasure. She resents 
such impertinence by neglect. In plain terms, the tine arts 
must be made a business by those who desire their favor. Like 
law, divinity, physic, they constitute a profession of their own ; 
require the same diligent endeavor, close study, fond pursuit ! 
William Edgerton loved painting, but his business was the law. 
He loved painting too much to love his profession. He gave 
too much of his time to the law to be a successful painter — too 
much time to painting to be a lawyer. He was nothing ! At 
the bar he never rose a step after the first day, when, together, 
we appeared in our mutual maiden case ; and contenting himself 
with the occasional execution of a landscape, sketchy and bold, 
but without finish, he remained in that nether-land of public con- 
sideration, unable to grasp the certainties of either pursuit at 
which he nevertheless was constantly striving ; striving, how- 
ever, with that qualified degree of effort, which, if it never could 
secure the prize, never could fatigue him much with the endeavor 
to do so. 

He was perfectly delighted when he first saw some of the 
sketches of my wife. He had none of that little jealousy 
which so frequently impairs the temper and the worth of am- 
ateurs. He could admire without prejudice, and praise without 
reserve. He praised them. He evidently admired them. He 
sought e'Cery occasion to see them, and omitted none in which 
to declare his opinion of their merits. This, in the first pleasant 
season of my marriage — when the leaves were yet green and 
fresh upon the tree of love — was grateful to my feelings. I 
felt happy to discover that my judgment had not erred in the 
selection of my wife. I stimulated her industry that I might 
listen to my friend’s eulogy. I suggested subjects for her pen- 
cil. I fitted up an apartment especially as a studio for her use. 
I bought her some fine studies, lay figures, heads in marble and 
plaster; and lavished, in this way, the small surplus fund v/hich 
had heretofore accrued from my professional industry, and that 
personal frugality with which it was accompanied. 

William Edgerton was now for ever at our house. He 

7 


146 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


brouglit liis own pictures for the inspection of my wife. He 
sometimes painted in her studio. He devised rural and 
aquatic parties with sole reference to landscape scenery and 
delineation; and indifferent to the law always, he now aban- 
doned himself almost entirely to those tastes which seemed to 
have acquired of a sudden, the strangest and the strongest 
impulse. 

In this — at least for a considerable space of time — I saw 
nothing very remarkable. I knew his tastes previously. I had 
seen how little disposed he was to grapple earnestly with the 
duties of his profession ; and did not conceive it surprising, that, 
with family resources sufficient to yield him pecuniary indepen- 
dence, he should surrender himself up to the luxurious influence 
of tastes which were equally lovely in themselves, and natural 
to the first desires of his mind. But when for days he was 
missed from his office — when the very hours of morning which 
are most religiously devoted by the profession to its ostensible 
if not earnest pursuit, were yielded up to the easel — and when, 
overlooking the boundaries which, according to the conventional 
usage, made such a course improper, he passed many of these 
mornings at my house, during my absence, I began to entertain 
feelings of disquietude. 

For these I had then no name. The feelings were vague 
and indefinable, but not the less unpleasant. I did not fancy 
for a moment that I was wronged, or likely to be wronged, but 
I felt that he was doing wrong. Then, too, I had my mis- 
givings of what the world would think ! I did not fancy that 
he had any design to wrong me ; but there seemed to me a 
cruel want of consideration in his conduct. But what annoyed 
me most Avas, that Julia should receive him at such periods 
He was thoughtless, enthusiastic in art, and thoughtless, per- 
haps, in consequence of his enthusiasn,. But I expected that 
she should think for both of us in such a case. Women, alone, 
can be the true guardians of appearances where they themselves 
are concerned ; and it was matter of painful surprise to me that 
she should not have asked hers(;lf the question : “ What will 
the neighbors think, during my husband’s absence, to see a 
stranger, a young man, coming to visit me with periodical regu- 
larity, morning after morning 


DISTRUST. 


147 


44iat she did not ask herself this question should have been 
a very strong argument to show me that her thoughts were all 
innocent. But there is a terrible truth in what Caesar said of 
his wife’s reputation : “ She must be free from suspicion.” She 
must not only do nothing wrong, but she must not suffer or do 
anything which might incur the suspicion of wrong-doing. 
There is nothing half so sensible to the breath of calumny, as 
female reputation, particularly in regions of high civilization, 
where women are raised to an artificial rank of respect, which 
obviates, in most part, the obligations of their dependence upon 
man, but increases, in due proportion, some of their responsibili- 
ties to him. Poor Julia had no circumspection, because she 
had no feeling of evil. I believe she was purity itself ; I 
equally believe that William Edgerton was quite incapable of 
evil design. But when I came from m.y office, the first morning 
that he had thus passed at my house in my absence, and she told 
me that he had been there, and how the time had been spent, I 
felt a pang, like a sharp arrow, suddenly rush into my brain. 
Julia had no reserve in telling me this fact. It was a subject she 
seemed pleased to dwell upon. She narrated with the earnest, 
unseeing spirit of a self-satisfied child, the sort of conversation 
which had taken place between them — praised Edgerton’s 
taste, his delicacy, his subdued, persuasive manners, and show- 
ed herself as utterly unsophisticated as any Swiss mountain-girl 
who voluntarily yields the traveller a kiss, and tells her mother of 
it afterward. I listened with chilled manners and a troubled mind. 

“ You aie unwell, Edward,” she remarked tenderly, ap- 
proaching and throwing her arms around my neck, as she pev 
ceived the gradual gathering of that cloud upon my brows. 

“ Why do you think so, Julia ?” 

“Oh, you look so sad — almost severe, Edward, and your 
words are so few and cold. Have I offended you, dear Edward 

I was confused at this direct question. I felt annoyed, 
ashamed. I pleaded headache in justification of my manner — 
it did ache, .and myJieart, too, but not with the ordinary pang: 
and I felt a warm blush suffuse my cheek, as I yielded to the 
first suggestion which prompted me to deceive my wife. 

A large leading step was thus taken, and progress was easy 
afterward. 


148 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Oh ! sweet spirit of confidence, tlioii only true saint, more 
needful than all, to bind the ties of kindred and affection ! why 
art thou so prompt to fly at the approach of thy cold, dark en- 
emy, distrust? Why dost thou yield the field with so little 
struggle? Why, when the things, dearest to thee of all in the 
world’s gift — its most valued treasure, its purest, sweetest, and 
proudest trophies — why, when these are the stake which is to 
reward thy courage, thy adherence, to compensate thee for trial, 
to console thee for loss and outrage — why is it that thou art so 
ready to despond of the cause so dear to thee, and forfeit the 
conquest by which alone thy whole existence is made sweet. 
This is the very suicide of self. Fearful of loss, we forsake 
the prize, which we have won ; and hearkening to the counsel 
of a natural enemy, eat of that bitter fruit which banishes for 
ever from our Mps the sweet savor which we knew before, and 
without which, no savor that is left is sweet. 


PROGRESS OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. 


149 


CHAPTER XX. 

PROGRESS OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. 

If 1 felt so deeply annoyed at the first morning visit which 
William Edgerton paid to my wife, what was my annoyance 
when these visits became habitual. I was miserable but could 
not complain. I was ashamed of the language of complaint on 
such a subject. There is something very ridiculous in the idea 
of a jealous husband — it has always provoked the laughter of 
the world ; and I was one of those men who shrunk from 
ridicule with a more than mortal dread. Besides, I really felt 
no alarm. I had the utmost confidence in my wife’s virtue. I had 
not the less confidence in that of Edgerton. But I was jealous 
of her deference — of her regard — for another. She was, in 
my eyes, as something sacred, set apart — a treasure exclusively 
my own ! Should it he that another should come to divide her 
veneration with me ? I was vexed that she should derive satis- 
faction from another source than myself. This satisfaction she 
derived from the visits of Edgerton. She freely avowed it. 

“How amiable — how pleasant he is,” she would say, in the 
perfect innocence of her heart ; “ and really, Edward, he has so 
much talent !” 

These praises annoyed me. They were as so much worm- 
wood to my spirit. It must be remembered that I was not my- 
self what the world calls an amiable man. I doubt if any, 
even of my best friends, would describe me as a pleasant one. 
I was a man of too direct and earnest a temperament to estab- 
lish a claim, in reasonable degree, to either of these character- 
istics. I was, accordingly, something blunt in my address — 
the tones of my voice were loud — my manner was all empresse- 
menty except when I was actually angry, and then it was cold, 


150 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


liard, dry, inflexible. I was the last person in the world to 
pass for an amiable. Now, Julia, on the other hand, was quiet, 
subdued, timorous — the tones of a strong, decided voice startled 
her — she shrunk from controversy — yielded always with a 
happy grace in anticipation of the conflict, and showed, in all 
respects, that nice, almost nervous organization which attaches 
the value of principles and morals to mere manners, and would 
be as much shocked, perhaps, at the expression of a rudeness, 
as at the commission of a sin. Not that such persons would 
hold a sin to be less criminal or innocuous than would we our- 
selves ; but that they regard mere conduct as of so much more 
importance. 

When, therefore, she praised William Edgerton for those 
qualities which I well knew I did not possess, I could not resist 
the annoyance. My self-esteem — continually active — stimu- 
lated as it had been by the constant moral strife, to which it 
had been subjected from boyhood — was continually apprehend- 
ing disparagement. Of the purity of Julia’s heart, and the 
chastity of her conduct, the very freedom of her utterance was 
conclusive. Had she felt one single improper emotion toward 
William Edgerton, her lips would never have voluntarily ut- 
tered his name, and never in the language of applause. On 
this head I had not then the slightest apprehension. It was 
not jealousy so much as egdisme that was preying upon me. 
Whatever it was, however, it could not be repressed as I 
listened to the eulogistic language of my wife. I strove, but 
could not subdue, altogether, the evil spirit which was fast be- 
coming predominant within me. Yet, though speaking under 
its immediate influence, I was very far from betraying its true 
nature. My egdisme had not yet made such advances as to be- 
come reckless and incautious. I surprised her by my answer 
to her eulogies. 

“ I have no doubt he is amiable — he is amiable — but that is 
not enough for a man. He must be something more than ami- 
able, if he would escape the imputation of being feeble — some- 
thing more if he would be anything !” 

Julia looked at me with eyes of profound and dilating aston- 
ishment. Having got thus far, it was easy to advance. The 
first step is half the journey in all such cases. 


PROGRESS OF THE EVIL SPIRIT. 


151 


“ William Edgerton is a little too amiable, perhaps, for his 
own good. It makes him listless and worthless. He will do 
nothing at pictures, wasting his time only when he should be at 
his business.” 

“ But did I not understand you, Edward, that he was a man 
of fortune, and independent of his profession?” she answered 
timidly. 

“ Even that will not justify a man in becoming a trifler. No 
man should waste his time in painting, unless he makes a trade 
of it.” 

“ But his leisure, Edward,” suggested Julia, with a look of 
increasing timidity. 

“His leisure, indeed, Julia; — but he has been here all day 
— day after day. If painting is such a passion with him, let 
him abandon law and take to it. But he should not pursue one 
art while professing another. It is as if a man hankered after 
that which he yet lacked the courage to challenge and pursue 
openly.’ 

*“I don’t think you love pictures as you used to, Edward,” 
she remarked to me, after a little interval passed in unusual 
silence 

“ Perha]>s it is because I have matters of more consequence 
to attend to You seem sufficiently devoted to them now to ex- 
cuse my indifference.” 

ourely, dear Edward, something I have done vexes you. 
Tell me, husband. Ho not spare me. Say, in what have I 
offended ?” 

I Lad not the courage to be ingenuous. Ah ! if I had ! 

‘Nay, you o'^ve not offended,” I answered hastily — “I am 
only worried wth some unmanageable thoughts. The law, you 
know, is full ot pr v )king, exciting, irritating necessities.” 

She looked at me with a kind but searching glance. My soul 
seemed to shrink from that scrutiny. My eyes sunk beneath 
her gaze. 

“ I wish I knew how to console you, Edward : to make you 
entirely happy. I pray for it, Edward. I thought we were 
always to be so happy. Hid you not promise me that you 
would always leave your cares at your office — that our cottage 
should be sacred to love and peace only ?” 


152 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


She put her arms about my neck, and looked into my face 
with such a sweet, strange, persuasive smile — half mirth, half 
sadness — that the evil spirit was subdued within me. I clasped 
her fervently in my embrace, with all my old feelings of con- 
fidence and joy renewed. At this moment the servant an- 
nounced Mr. Edgerton, and with a start — a movement — 
scarcely as gentle as it should have been, I put the fond and 
still beloved woman from my embrace I 


CHANGES OP HOME. 


16B 


CHAPTER XXL 

CHANGES OF HOME. 

From this time my intercourse with William Edgerton was, 
on my part, one of the most painful and difficult constraint. I 
had nothing to reproach him with ; no grounds whatever for 
quarrel; and could not, in his case — regarding the long inti- 
macy which I had maintained with himself and father, and the 
obligations which were due from me to both — adopt such a 
manner of reserve and distance as to produce the result of indif- 
ference and estrangement which I now anxiously desired. I 
was still compelled to meet him — meet him, too, with an affec- 
tation of good feeling and good humor, which I soon found it, 
of all things in the world, the most difficult even to pretend. 
How much would I have given could he only have provoked 
me to anger on any ground — could he have given me an occa- 
sion for difference of any sort or to any degree — anything 
which could have justified a mutual falling off from the old inti- 
macy ! But William Edgerton was meekness and kindness it- 
self. His confidence in me was of the most unobservant, suspi- 
cionless character; either that, or I succeeded better than I 
thought in the effort to maintain the external aspects of old 
friendship. He saw nothing of change in my deportment. He 
seemed, not to see it, at least ; and came as usual, or more fre- 
quently than usual, to my house, until, at length, the studio of 
my wife was quite as much his as hers — nay, more ; for, after a 
brief space, whether it was that Julia saw what troubled me, or 
felt herself the imprudence of Edgerton’s conduct, she almost 
entirely surrendered it to him. She was not now so often to 
be seen in it. 

This proceeding alarmed me. I dreaded lest my secret 
should be discovered. I was shocked lest my wife should sup- 
pose me jealous. The feeling is one which cax-ries with it a 


154 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

sufficiently severe commentary, in the fact that most men are 
heartily ashamed to be thought to suffer from it. But, if it 
vexed me to think that she should know or suspect the truth, 
how much more was I troubled lest it should be seen or sus- 
pected by others ! This fear led to new circumspection. I 
now affected levities of demeanor and remark ; studiously ab- 
sented myself from home of an evening, leaving my wife with 
Edgerton, or any other friend who happened to be present ; and, 
though I began no practices of profligacy, such as are common 
to young scapegraces in all times, I yet, to some moderate ex- 
tent. affected them. 

A tone of sadness now marked the features of my wife. 
There was an expression of anxiety in her countenance, which, 
amid all her previous sufferings, I had never seen there before. 
She did not complain ; but sometimes, when we sat alone to- 
gether, I reading, perhaps, and she sewing, she would drop her 
work in her lap, and sigh suddenly and deeply, as if the first 
shadows of the upgathering gloom were beginning to cloud her 
young and innocent spirit, and force her apprehensions into 
utterance. This did not escape me, but I read its signification, 
as witches are said to read the Bible, backward. A gloomier 
fancy filled my brain as I heard her unconscious sigh. 

“ It is the language of regret. She laments our marriage. 
She could have found another, surely, who could have made 
her happier. Perhaps, had Edgerton and herself known each 
other intimately before ! — ” 

Dark, perverse imagining ! It crushed me. I felt, I can not 
tell, what bitterness. Let no one suppose that I endured less 
misery than I inflicted. The miseries of the damned could not 
have exceeded mine in some of the moments when these cruel 
conjectures filled my mind. Then followed some such proofs as 
as these of the presence of the Evil One : — 

“ You sigh, Julia. You are unhappy.” 

“ Unhappy ? no, dear Edward, not unhappy ! What makes 
you think so ?” 

“ What makes you sigh, then ?” 

“ I do not know. I am certainly not unhappy. Did I sigh, 
Edward ?” 

“ Yes, and seemingly from the very bottom of your heart. I 


CHANGES, or HOME. 


155 


fsar, Julia, that you are not happy ; nay. I am sure you are 
not ! I feel that I am not the man to make you happy. I am 
a perverse — ” 

Nay, Edward, now you speak so strangely, and your brow 
is stern, and your tones tremble ! What can it be afflicts you ? 
You are angry at something, dear Edward. Surely, it can not 
be with me.” 

‘And if it were, Julia, I am afraid it would give you little 
concern.” 

‘'Now, Edward, you are cruel. You do me wrong. You do 
yourself wrong. Why should you suppose that it would give 
me little concern to see you angry 1 So far from this, I should 
regard it as the greatest misery which I had to suffer. Do not 
speak so, dearest Edward — do not fancy such things. Believe 
me, my husband, when I tell you that I know nothing half sor 
dear to me as your love — nothing that I would not sacrifice 
with a pleasure, to secure, to preserve that /** 

“ Ah ! would you give up painting ?” 

“ Painting ! that were a small sacrifice ! I worked at it only 
because you used to like it.” 

“ What, you think I do not like it now ?” 

“ 1 knaw you do not.” 

“ But you paint still ?” 

“ No ! I have not handled brush or pencil for a week. Mr. 
Edgerton was reproaching me only yesterday for my neglect.” 

“Ah, indeed ! Well, you promised him to resume, did you 
not ? He is a rare persuader ! He is so amiable, so mild — you 
could not well resist.” 

It was from her face that I formed a rational conjecture of 
the expression that must have appeared in mine. Her eyes 
dilated with a look of timid wonder, not unmixed with appre- 
hension. She actually shrunk back a space ; then, approach- 
ing, laid her hand upon my wrist, as she exclaimed : — 

“ God of heaven, Edward, what strange thought is in your 
bosom ] what is the meaning of that look ? Look not so again, 
if you would not kill me !” 

I averted my face from hers, but without speaking. She 
; rew her arms around my neck. 

“Do not turn away from me, Edward. Do not, do not, I 


156 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


entreat you ! You must not — no ! not till you tell me what *c 
troubling you — not till I soothe you, and make you love me 
again as much as you did at first.” 

When I turned to her again, the tears — hot, scalding tears 
— were already streaming down my cheeks. 

“ Julia, God knows I love you ! Never woman yet was mor. 
devotedly loved by man! I love you too much — too deepl} 
— too entirely ! Alas, I love nothing else I” 

“ Say not that you love me too much — that can not be ! o 
I not love you — you only, you altogether? Should I not have 
your whole love in return V* 

“Ah, Julia! but my love is a convidsive eagerness of soul — 
a passion that knows no limit ! It is not that my heart is en- 
tirely yours : it is that it is yours with a frenzied desperation. 
There is a fanaticism in love as in religion. My h ve is that 
fanaticism. It burns — it commands — where yours would but 
soothe and solicit.” 

“But is mine the less true — the less valuable for this, dear 
Edward ?” 

“ No, perhaps not ! It may be even more true, more valua- 
ble ; it may be only less intense. But fanaticism, you know, is 
exacting — nothing more so. It permits no half-passion, no mod- 
cerate zeal. It insists upon devotion like its own. Ah, Julia, 
could you but love as I do !” 

“ I love you all, Edward, all that I can, and as it belongs *,o 
my nature to love. But I am a woman, and a timid one, you 
know. I am not capable of that wild passion which you feal. 
Were I to indulge it, it would most certainly destroy me. Even 
as it sometimes appears in you, it terrifies and unnerves me. 
You are so impetuous !” 

“Ah, you would have only the meek, the amiable »” 

And thus, with an implied sarcasm, our conversation ended. 
Julia turned on me a look of imploring, which was naturally 
one of reproach. It did not have its proper influence upon me. 
I seized my hat, and hurried from the house. I rushed, rather 
than walked, through the streets ; and, before I knew where I 
was, I found myself on the banks of the river, under the shade 
of trees, with the soft evening breeze blowing up( n me, and the 
placid moon sailing quietly above. I threw myself (bwn upon 


CHANGES OF HOME. 


157 


the grass, and delivered myself up to gloomy thoughts. Here 
was I, then, scarcely twenty-five years old ; young, vigorous ; 
with a probable chance of fortune before me ; a young and 
lovely wife, the very creature of my first and only choice, one 
whom I tenderly loved, whom, if to seek again, I should again, 
and again, and only, seek ! Yet I was miserable — miserable 
in the very possession of my first hopes, my best joys — the 
very treasure that had always seemed the dearest in my sight. 
Miserable blind heart ! miserable indeed ! ■ For what was there 
to make me miserable? Absolutely nothing — nothing that the 
outer world could give — nothing that it could ever take away. 
But what fool is it that fancies there must be a reason for one’s 
\vretchedness ? The reason is in our own hearts j in the per- 
verseness which can make of its own heaven a hell ! not often 
fashion a heaven out of hell ! 

Brooding, I lay upon the sward, meditating unutterable things, 
and as far as ever from any conclusion. Of one thing alone I 
was satisfied: — that I was unutterably miserable; that my des- 
tiny was written in sable ; that I was a man foredoomed to avo ! 
Were my speculations strange or unnatural! Unnatural in- 
deed I There is a class of surface-skimming persons, who pro- 
nounce all things unnatural which, to a cool, unprovoked, and 
perhaps unprovokable mind, appear unreasonable : as if a 
vexed nature and exacting passions were not the most unrea- 
sonable yet most natural of all moral agents. My woes may 
have been groundless, but it was surely not unnatural that I 
felt and entertained them. 

Thus, Avith bitter mood, growing more bitter with every mo- 
ment of its unrestrained indulgence, I gloomed in loneliness 
beside the banks of that silvery and smooth-flowing river. Cer- 
tainly the natural world around me lent no color to my fancies. 
While all was dark within, all was bright without. A fiend was 
tugging at my heart ; Avhile from a little white cottage, a foAv 
hundred yards below, which grew flush with the margin of the 
stream, there stole forth the tender, tinkling strains of a guitar, 
probably touched by fair fingers of a fair maiden, with some 
enamored boy, blind and doting, hovering beside her. I, too, 
had stood thus and hearkened thus, and where am I — what 
am II 


158 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I started to my feet. I found something offensive in the mu- 
sic. It came linked with a song which I had heard Julia sing 
a hundred times ; and when I thought of those hours of confi- 
dence, and felt myself where I was, alone — and how lone ! — 
bitterer than ever were the wayward pangs which were preying 
upon the tenderest fibres of my heart. 

In the next moment I ceased to be alone. I was met and 
jostled by another person as I bounded forward, much too rap- 
idly, in an effort to bury myself in the deeper shadow of some 
neighboring trees. The stranger was nearly overthrown in the 
collision, which extorted a hasty exclamation from his lips, not 
unmingled with a famous oath or two. In the voice I recog- 
nised that of my friend Kingsley — the well-known pseudo- 
Kentucky gentleman, who had acted a part so important in 
extricating my wife from her mother’s custody. I made myself 
known to him in apologizing for my rudeness. 

“You here!” said he; “I did not expect to meet you. I 
have just been to your house, where I found your wife, and 
where I intended to stop a while and wait for you. But Bill 
Edgerton, in the meanwhile, popped in, and after that I could 
hear nothing but pictures and paintings. Madonnas, Ecce Ho- 
mos, and the like ; till I began to fancy that I smelt nothing 
but paint and varnish. So I popped out, with a pretty blunt 
excuse, leaving the two amateurs to talk in oil and water-colors, 
and settle the principles of art as they please. Like you, I 
fancy a real landscape, here, by the water, and under the green 
trees, in preference to a thousand of their painted pictures.” 

It may be supposed that my mood underwent precious little 
improvement after this communication. Dark conceits, darker 
than ever, came across my mind. I longed to get away, and 
return to that home from which I had banished confidence! — 
ah, only too happy if there still lingered hope ! But my friend, 
blunt, good-humored, and thoughtless creature as he was, took 
for gi’anted that I had come to look at the landscape, to admire 
water-views by moonlight, and drink fresh draughts of sea- 
breeze from the southwest ; and, thrusting his arm through mine, 
he dragged me on, down, almost to the thresliold of the cottage, 
whence still issued the tinkle, tinkle, of the guitar which had 
first driven me away. 


changes op home. 


169 


“ T)iat girl sings well. Do you know her — Miss Davison? 
She’s soon to be married, they say (d — n ‘ they say,’ however 
— the f'^eatest scandal-monger, if not mischief-maker and liar, 
in tin world !) — she is soon to be married to young Trescott — 
a ck/Ver lad who sniffles, plays on the flute, wears whisker and 
imperial on the most cream-colored and effeminate face you 
e /ei* saw ! A good fellow, nevertheless, but a silly ! She is a 
good fellow, too, rather the cleverest of the twain, and perhaps 
the oldest. The match, if match it really is to be, none of the 
wisest for that very reason. The damsel, now-a-days, who mar- 
ries a lad younger than herself, is laying up a large stock of 
pother, which is to bother her when she becomes thirty — for 
even young ladies, you know, after forty, may become thirty. 
A sort of dispensation of nature. She sings well, nevertheless.” 

I said something — it matters not what. Dark images of 
home were in my eyes. I heard no song — saw no landscape. 
The voice of Kingsley was a sort of buzzing in my ears. 

“You are dull to-night, but that song ought to soothe you. 
What a cheery, light-hearted wench it is ! Her voice does 
seem so to rise in air, shaking its wings, and crying tira-la ! 
tira-la ! with an enthusiasm which is catching ! I almost feel 
prompted to kick up my heels, throw a summerset, and, while 
turning on my axis, give her an echo of tira-la ! tira-la ! tira-la ! 
after her own fashion.” 

“ You are certainly a happy, mad fellow, Kingsley !” was my 
faint, cheerless commentary upon a gayety of heart which I 
could not share, and the unreserved expression of which, at 
that moment, only vexed me. 

“And you no glad one, Clifford. That song, which almost 
prompts me to dance, makes no impression on you ! By-the- 
way, your wife used to sing so well, and now I never hear her 

That d d painting, if you don’t mind, will make her give 

up everything else ! As for Bill Edgerton, he cares for nothing 
else but his varnish, trees, and umber-hills, and streaky water.. 
You shouldn’t let him fill your wife’s mind with this oil-and- 
varnish spirit — giving up the piano, the guitar, and that sweeter 
instrument than all, her own voice. D — n the paintings ! — 
his long talk on the subject almost makes me sick of everything 
like a picture. I now look upon a beautiful landscape like this, 


160 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

as a tiling that is shortly to he desecrated — taken in vain— - 
scratched out of shape and proportion upon a deal-board, and 
colored after such a fashion as never before was seen in the nat- 
ural world, upon, or under, or about this solid earth. D — n 
the pictures, I say again ! — but, for Grod’s sake, Clifford, don't 
let your wife give up the music ! Make her play, even if she 
don’t like it. She likes the painting best, but I wouldn’t allow 
it ! A wife is a sort of person that we set to do those things 
that we wish done and can’t do for ourselves. That’s my defi- 
nition of a wife. Now, if I were in your place, with my pres- 
ent love for music and dislike of pictures, I’d put her at the 
piano, and put the paint-saucers, and the oil, and the smutted 
canvass, out of the window; and then — unless he came to his 
senses like other people — I’d thrust Bill Edgerton out after 
them ! I’d never let the best friend in the world spoil my wife.” 

The effect of this random chatter of my good-natured friend 
upon my mind may well be imagined. It was fortunate that 
he was quite too much occupied in what he was saying to note 
my annoyance. In vain, anxious to be let off, was I restrained 
in utterance — cold, unpliable. The good fellow took for granted 
that it was an act of friendship to try to amuse ; and thus, yearn- 
ing with a nameless discontent and apprehension to get home, 
I was marched to and fro along the river-bank, from one scene 
to another — he, meanwhile, utterly heedless of time, and as 
actively bent on perpetual motion as if his sinews were of steel 
and his flesh iron. Meanwhile, the guitar ceased, and the song 
in the cottage of Miss Davison ; the lights went out in that and 
all the other dwellings in sight ; the moon waned ; and it was 
not till the clock from a distant steeple tolled out the hour of 
eleven with startling solemnity, that Kingsley exclaimed : — 

“Well, mon ami, we have had a ramble, and I trust I have 
somewhat dissipated your gloomy fit. And now to bed — what 
say you ? — with what appetite we may !” 

With what appetite, indeed ! We separated. I rushed home- 
ward, the moment he was out of sight — once more stood before 
my ov;n dwelling. There the lights remained unextinguished, 
and William Edgerton was still a tenant of my parlor ! 


SELF-HUMILIATION. 


161 


I HAD not the 
sank within me. 
intense desire, a 
ever baffled. Let no one who has not been in my situation ; who 
has not been governed by like moral and social influences from 
the beginning ; who knows not my sensibilities, and the organi- 
zation — singular and strange it may be — of my mind and body; 
let no such person jump to the conclusion that there was any 
thing unnatural, however unreasonable and unreasoning, in the 
wild passion which possessed me. I look back upon it with 
some surprise myself. The fears which I felt, the sufferings I 
endured, however unreasonable, were yet true to my training. 
That training made me selfish; how selfish let my blindness 
show ! In the blindness of self I could see nothing but the thing 
I feared, the one phantom — phantom though it were — which 
was sufficient to quell and crush all the better part of man with- 
in me, banish all the real blessings which were at command 
around me. I gave but a single second glance through the win- 
dows of my habitation, and then darted desperately away from 
the entrance ! I bounded, without a consciousness, through the 
now still and dreary streets, and found myself, without intending 
it, once more beside the river, whose constant melancholy chi- 
dings, seemed the echoes — though in the faintest possible degree 
— of the deep waters of some apprehensive sorrow then rolling 
through all the channels of my soul. 

What was it that I feared ? What was it that I sought ? Was 
it love ? Can it be that the strange passion which we call by 
this name, was the source of that sad frenzy which filled and 
afflicted my heart ? And was I not successful in my love ? Had 


CHAPTER XXII. 

SELF-HUMILIATION. 

courage to enter my own dwelling ! My heart 
It was as if the whole hope of a long life, an 
keen unremitting pursuit, had suddenly been for 


162 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I not found the sought? — won the withheld? What was 
denied to me that I desired ? I asked of myself these questions. 
I asked them in vain. I could not answer them. I believe that 
I can answer now. It was sincerity, earnestness, devotion from 
her, all speaking through an intensity like that which I felt 
within my own soul. 

Now, Julia lacked this earnestness, this intensity. Accustom- 
ed to submission, her manner was habitually subdued. Her 
strongest utterance was a tear, and that was most frequently 
hidden. She did not respond to me in the language in which 
my affections were wont to speak. Sincerity she did not lack 
— ffir from it — she was truth itself! It is the keener pang to 
my conscience now, that I am compelled to admit this conviction. 
Her modes of utterance were not less true than mine. They 
were not less significant of truth ; but they were after a different 
fashion. In a moment of calm and reason, I might have believed 
this truth ; nay, I knew it, even at those moments when I was 
most unjust. It was not the truth that I required so much as 
the presence of an attachment which could equal mine in its 
degree and strength. This was not in her nature. She was 
one taught to subdue her nature, to repress the tendencies of her 
heart, to submit in silence and in meekness. She had invaria- 
bly done so until the insane urgency of her mother made her 
desperate. But for this desperation she had still submitted, per- 
haps, had never been my wife. In the fervent intensity of my 
own love, I fancied, from the beginning, that there was some- 
thing too temperate in the tone of hers. Were I to be exam- 
ined now, on this point, I should say that her deportment was 
one which declared the nicest union of sensibility and maidenly 
propriety. But, compared with mine, her passions were feeble, 
frigid. ;Mine were equally intense and exacting. Perhaps, had 
she even responded to my impetuosity with a like fervor, I should 
have recoiled from her with a feeling of disgust much more rapid 
and much more legitimate, than was that of my present frenzy. 

Frenzy it was I and it led me to the performance of those 
things of which I shame to speak. But the truth, and its honest 
utterance now, must be one of those forms of atonement with 
which I may hope, perhaps vainly, to lessen, in the sight of 
Heaven, some of my human offences. I had scarcely reached 


SELF-HU..11LIAT10N. 


168 


the water-side before a new impulse drove me back. You wil^ 
scarcely believe me when I tell you that I descended to the base 
character of the spy upon my Household. The blush is red on 
my cheek while I record the shameful error. I entered the gar- 
den, stole like a felon to the lattice of the apartment in v'^hich 
my wife sat with her guest, and looked in with a greedy fear, 
upon the features of the two ! 

What were my own features then ? What the expression of 
my eyes ? It was well that I could not see them ; I felt that 
they must be frightful. But what did I expect to see in this es- 
pionage? As I live, honestly nov/, and with what degree of 
honesty I then possessed, I may truly declare tliat when I 
thought upon the subject at all, I had no more suspicion that my 
wife would be guilty of any gross crime, than 1 had of the guilt 
of the Deity himself. Far from it. Such a fancy never troubled 
me. But, what was it to me, loving as I did, exclusive, and 
selfish, and exacting as I was — what was it tome if, forbearing 
all crime of conduct, she yet regarded another with eyes of 
idolatry — if her mind was yielded up to him in deference and 
regard ; and thoughts, disparaging to me, filled her brain with 
his superior worth, manners, merits ? He had tastes, perhaps 
talents, which I had not. In the forum, in all the more ener- 
getic, more imposing performances of life, William Edgerton, I 
knew, could take no rank in competition with myself. But I 
was no ladies’ man. I had no arts of society. My manners 
were even rude. My address was direct almost to bluntness. I 
had no discriminating graces, and could make no sacrifice, in 
that school of polish, where the delicacy is too apt to become 
false, and the performances trifling. It is idle to dwell on this ; 
still more idle to speculate upon probable causes. It may be 
that there are persons in the world of both sexes, and governed 
by like influences, who have been guilty of like follies ; to them 
my revelations may be of service. My discoveries, if I have 
made any, were quite too late to be of much help to me. 

To resume, I prowled like a guilty phantom around my own 
habitation. I scanned closely, with the keenest eyes of jealousy, 
every feature, every movement of the two within. In the eyes 
of Edgerton, I beheld — I did not deceive myself in this — I 
beheld the speaking soul, devoted, rapt, full of love for the oh 


164 


CONFESSION. OR THE BLIND HEART. 


ject of liis survey. That he loved her was to me sufficiently 
clear. His words were few, faintly spoken, timid. His eyes 
did not encounter hers ; bu^ when hers were averted, they 
riveted their fixed glances upon her face with the adhe- 
rence of the yearning steel for the magnet ! Bitterly did I 
gnash my teeth — bitterly did my spirit rise in rebellion, as I 
noted these characteristics. But, vainly, with all my perversity 
of feeling and judgment, did I examine the air, the look, the 
action, the expression, the tones, the words of my wife, to make 
a like discovery. All was passionless, all seeming pure, in her 
whole conduct. She was gentle in her manner, kind in her 
words, considerate in her attentions ; hut so entirely at ease, so 
evidently unconscious, as well of improper thoughts in herself 
as of an improper tendency in him, that, though still resolute to 
he wilful and unhappy, I yet could see nothing of which I could 
reasonably complain. Nay, I fancied that there was a touch of 
listlessness, amounting to indifference, in her air, as if she really 
wished him to be gone ; and, for a moment, my heart heat with 
a returning flood of tenderness, that almost prompted me to rush 
suddenly into the apartment and clasp her to my arms. 

At length, Edgerton departed. When he rose to do so, I felt 
the awkwardness of my situation — the meanness of which I 
had been guilty — the disgrace which would follow detection, 
'rhe shame I already felt ; but, though sickening beneath it, the 
passion which drove me into the commission of so slavish an act, 
was still superior to all others, and could not then be overcome. 
I hurried from the window and from the premises while he was 
taking his leave. My mind was still in a frenzy. I rambled 
off, unconsciously, to the most secluded places along the suburbs, 
endeavoring to lose the thoughts that troubled me. I had now 
a new cause for vexation. I was haunted by a conviction of 
my own shame. How could I look Julia in the face — how meet 
and speak to her, and hear the accents of her voice and my own 
after the unworthy espionage which I had instituted upon her ? 
Would not my eyes betray me — my faltering accents, mv 
abashed looks, my flushed and burning cheeks ? I felt that it 
was impossible for me to escape detection. I was sure that every 
look, every tone, would sufficiently betray my secret. Perhaps 
T should not have felt this fear, had I possessed the courage to 


SELF-HUMILIATION. 


165 


resolve against the repetition of my error. Could I have de- 
clared this resolution to myself, to forego the miserable proceed- 
ing which I had that night begun, I feel that I should then have 
taken one large step toward my own deliverance from that for- 
midable fiend which was then raging unmastered in my soul. 
But I lacked the courage for this. Fatal deficiency ! I felt im- 
pressed with the necessity of keeping a strict watch upon Ed- 
gerton. I had seen, with eyes that could not be deceived, the 
feeling which had been expressed in his. I saw that he loved 
her, perhaps, without a consciousness himself of the unhappy 
truth. I hurried to the conclusion, accordingly, that he must be 
looked after. I did not so immediately perceive that in looking 
after him, I was, in truth, looking after Julia ; for what was my 
watch upon Edgerton but a watch upon her ? I had not the 
confidence in her to leave her to herself. That was my error. 
The true reasoning by which a man in my situation should be 
governed, is comprised in a nutshell. Either the wife is virtuous 
or she is not. If she is virtuous, she is safe without my espion- 
age. If she is not, all the watching in the world will not suffice 
to make her so. As for the discovery of her falsehood, he will 
make that fast enough. The security of the husband lies in his 
wife’s purity, not in his own eyes. It must be added to this ar- 
gument that the most virtuous among us, man or woman, is still 
very weak ; and neither wife, nor daughter, nor son, should be 
exposed to unnecessary temptation. Do we not daily implore 
ill our own prayers, to be saved from temptation ? 

I need not strive to declare what were my thoughts and feel- 
ings as I wandered off from my dwelling and place of espionage 
that night. No language of which I am possessed could embody 
to the idea of the reader the thousandth pari of what I suffered. 
An insane and morbid resentment filled my heart. A close, 
heavy, hot stupor, pressed upon my brain. My limbs seemed 
feeble as those of a child. I tottered in the streets. The stars, 
bright mysterious watchers, seemed peering down into my face 
with looks of smiling inquiry. The sudden bark of a watch-dog 
startled and unnerved me. I felt with the consciousness of a 
mean action, all the humiliating weakness which belongs to it. 

It took me a goodly hour before I could muster up courage 
to return home, and it was then midnight. Julia had retired to 


160 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


lior chamber, but not yet to her couch. She flew to me on my 
entrance — to my arms. I shrunk from her embraces; but she 
grasped me with greater firmness. I had never witnessed so 
much warmth in her before. It surprised me, but the solution 
of it was easy. My long stay had made her apprehensive. It 
was so unusual. My coldness, when she embraced me, was as 
startling to her, as her sudden warmth was surprising to me. 
She pushed me from her — still, however, holding me in her 
grasp, while she surveyed me. Then she started, and with 
ncAver apprehensions. 

Well she might. My looks alarmed her. My hair was dis- 
hevelled and moist with the night-dews. My cheeks were very 
pale. There was a quick, agitated, and dilating fullness of my 
eyes, which rolled hastily about the apartment, never even 
resting upon her. They dared not. I caught a hasty glance 
of myself in the mirror, and scarcely knew my own features. 
It was natural enough that she should be alarmed. She clung 
to me with increased fervency. She spoke hurriedly, but clear- 
ly, with an increased and novel power of utterance, the due 
result of her excitement. Could that excitement be occasioned 
by love for me — by a suspicion of the truth, namely, that I had 
been watching her 1 I shuddered as this last conjecture passed 
into my mind. That, indeed, would be a humiliation — worse, 
more degrading, by far, than all. 

“Oh, why have you left me — so long, so very long? where 
have you been ? what has happened ?” 

“ Nothing — nothing.” 

“Ah, but there is something, Edward. Speak! what is it, 
dear husband ? I see it in your eyes, your looks ! Why do 
you turn from me ? Look on me I tell me I You are very 
pale, and your eyes are so wild, so strange I You are sick, 
dear Edward ; you are surely sick : tell me, what has happened ?” 

Wild and hurried as they were, never did tones of more touch- 
ing sweetness fall from any lips. They unmanned — -nay, I use 
the wrong word — they manned me for the time. They brought 
me back to my senses, to a conviction of her truth, to a momen- 
tary conviction of my own folly. My words fell from me witli- 
out effort — few, hurried, husky — but it was a sudden heart- 
gush, which was unrestrainable. 


SELF-HUMILIATION. 107 

“Ask me not, Julia — ask me nothing ; but love me, only love 
me, and all will be well — all is well.” 

“ Do I not — ah ! do I not love you, Edward 

“ I believe you — God be praised, I do believe you !” 

“ Ob, surely, Edward, you never doubted this.” 

“ No, no ! — never !” 

Such was the fervent ejaculation of my lips ; such, in spite 
of its seeming inconsistency, was the real belief within my soul. 
What was it, then, that I did doubt ? wherefore, then, the mis- 
ery, the suspense, the suspicion, which grew and gathered, cor- 
roding in my heart, the parent of a thousand unnamed anxie- 
ties ? It will be difficult to answer. The heart of man is one 
of those strange creations, so various in its moods, so infinite in 
its ramifications, so subtle and sudden in its transitions, as to 
defy investigation as certainly as it refuses remedy and relief. 
It is enough to say that, with one schooled as mine had been, 
injuriously, and with injustice, there is little certainty in any of 
its movements. It becomes habitually capricious, feeds upon 
passions intensely, without seeming detriment ; and, after a sea- 
son, prefers the unwholesome nutriment which it has made vital, 
to those purer natural sources of strength and succor, without 
which, though it may still enjoy life, it can never know hap- 
piness. 


168 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

PROGRESS OF PASSION. 

“But,, do not leave me another time — not so long, Edward. 
Do not leave me alone. Your business is one thing. That you 
must, of course, attend to; but hours — not of business — hours 
in which you do no business — hours of leisure — your evenings, 
Edward — these you must share with me — you must give to 
me entirely. Ah ! will you not ? will you not promise me 

These were among the last words which she spoke to me ere 
we slept that night. The next morning, almost at awaking, she 
resumed the same language. I could not help perceiving that 
she spoke in tones of greater earnestness than usual — an ear- 
nestness expressive of anxiety for which I felt at some loss to 
account. Still, the tenor of what she said, at the time, gave me 
pleasure — a satisfaction which I did not seek to conceal, and 
which, while it lasted, was the sweetest of all pleasures to my 
soul. But the busy devil in my heart made his suggestions also, 
which were of a kind to produce any other but satisfying emo- 
tions. While I stood in my wife’s presence — in the hearing 
of her angel-voice, and beholding the pure spirit speaking out 
from her eyes — he lay dormant, rebuked, within his prison- 
house, crouching in quiet, waiting a more auspicious moment 
for activity. Nor was he long in waiting ; and then his cold, 
insinuating doubts — his inquiries — begot and startled mine! 

“Very good — all very good!” Such was the tone of his 
suggestions. “ She may well compound for the evenings with 
you, since she gives her whole mornings to your rival.” 

Archimedes asked but little for the propulsion of a world, 
The joalous spirit — a spirit jealous like mine — asks still less 
for the moving of that little but densely-populous world, the 
human heart. I forgot the sweet tones of my wife’s words — 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 


169 


the pure-souled words themselves — tones and words which, 
while their sounds yet lingered in my ears, I could not have 
questioned — I did not dare to question. The tempter grew in 
the ascendant the moment I had passed out of her sight ; and 
when I met William Edgerton the next day, he acquired 
greatly-increased power over my understanding. 

William Edgerton had evidently undergone a change. He 
no longer met my glances boldly with his oAvn. Perhaps, had 
he done so, my eyes would have been the first to shrink from 
the encounter. He looked down, or looked aside, when he 
spoke to :rie ; his words were few, timorous, hesitating, but stu- 
diously conciliatory ; and he lingered no longer in my presence 
than Avas absolutely unavoidable. Was there not a conscious- 
ness in this ] and what consciousness ? The devil at my heart 
ansAvered, and answered with truth, “ He loves your wife.” It 
Avould have been Avell, perhaps, had the cruel fiend said nothing 
farther. Alas ! I would have pardoned, nay, pitied William 
Edgerton, had the same chuckling spirit not assured me that 
she also Avas not insensible to him. I Avas continually reminded 
of the words, “Your business must, of course, be attended to !” 
— “What a considerate Avife !” said the tempter; “how very 
unusual with young wives, with whom business is commonly 
the very last consideration !” 

That very day, I found, on reaching home, that William 
Edgerton had been there — had gone there almost the moment 
after he had left me at the office ; and that he had remained 
there, obviously at work in the studio, until the time drew nigh 
for my return to dinner. My feelings forbade any inquiries. 
These facts were all related by my wife herself. I did not ask 
to hear them. I asked for nothing more than she told. The 
dread that my jealousy should be suspected made me put on a 
sturdy aspect of indifference ; and that exquisite sense of deli- 
cacy, which governed every movement of my wife's heart and 
conduct, forbade her to say — what yet she certainly desired 
I should know — that, in all that time, she had nut seen him, 
nor he her. She had studiously kept aloof in her chamber so 
long as he remained. Meanwhile, I brooded over their sup- 
posed long and secret interviews. These I took for granted. 
The happiness they felt — the mutual smile they witnessed — 

8 


170 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the unconscious sighs they uttered ! Such a picture of theii 
supposed felicity as my morbid imagination conjured up would 
have roused a doubly damned and damning fiend in the lieart 
of any mortal. 

What a task was mine, struggling with these images, these 
convictions ! — my pride struggling to conceal, my feelings strug- 
gling to endure. Then, there were other conflicts. What friends 
had the Edgertons been to me — father, mother — nay, that son 
himself, once so fondly esteemed, once so fondly esteeming ! 
Of course, no ties such as these could have made me patient 
under wrong. But they were such as to render it necessary 
that the wrong should he real, unquestionable, beyond doubt 
beyond excuse. This I felt, this I resolved. 

“ I will wait ! I will be patient ! I will endure, though the 
vulture gnaws incessant at my heart ! I will do nothing pre- 
cipitate. No, no : I must beware of that ! But let me prove 
them treacherous — let them once falter, and go aside from the 
straight path, and then — oh, then !” 

Such, as in spoken words, was the unspoken resolution of my 
soul; and this resolution required, first of all, that I should 
carry out the base purpose which, without a purpose, I had 
already begun. I must be a spy upon their interviews. They 
must be followed, watched — eyes, looks, hands ! Miserable ne- 
cessity ! but, under my present feelings and determination, not 
the less a necessity. And I, alone, must do it ; I, alone, must 
peer busily into these mysteries, the revelation of which can 
result only in my own ruin — seeking still, with an earnest dili- 
gence, to discover that which I should rather have prayed for 
eternal and unmitigated blindness, that I might not see ! Mine 
was, indeed, the philosophy of the madman. 

I persevered in it like one. I yielded all opportunities for 
the meeting of the parties — all opportunities which, in yield- 
ing, did not expose me to the suspicion of having any sinister 
object. If, for example, I found, or could conjecture, that Wil- 
liam Edgerton was likely to be at my house this or that even- 
ing, I studiously intimated, beforehand, some necessity for being 
myself absent. This carried me frequently from home — lone, 
wandering, vexing myself with the most hideous conjectures, 
the most self-torturing apprehensions. I sped away, obviously. 


FROGREGS Oj: PASSION. 


171 


into the city — to alleged meetings with friends or clients — cr 
on some pretence or other which seemed ordinary and natura^ 
But my course was to return, and, under cover of night, to prow.* 
around my own premises, like some guilty ghost, doomed t 
haunt the scene of former happiness, in its wantonness rendered 
a scene of ever-during misery. Certainly, no guilty ghost ever 
suffered in his penal tortures a torture worse than mine at these 
humiliating moments. It was torture enough to me that I was 
sensible of all the unhappy meanness of my conduct. On this 
head, though I strove to excuse myself on the score of a sup- 
posed necessity, I could not deceive myself — no ! — not for the 
smallest moment. 

Weeks passed in this manner — weeks to me of misery— -of 
annoyance and secret suffering to my wife. In this time, my 
espionage resulted in nothing but what has been already shown 
— in what was already sufficiently obvious to me. William 
Edgerton continued his insane attentions : he sought my dwel- 
ling with studious perseverance — sought it particularly at those 
periods when he fancied I was absent — when he knew it — 
though such were not his exclusive periods of visitation. He 
came at times when I was at home. His passion for my wife 
was sufficiently evident to me, though her deportment was such 
as to persuade me that she did not see it. All that I beheld of 
her conduct was irreproachable. There was a singular and 
sweet dignity in her air and manner, when they were together, 
(hat seemed one of the most insuperable barriers to any rash or 
presumptuous approach. While there was no constraint about 
her carriage, there was no familiarity — nothing to encourage 
or invite familiarity. While she answered freely, responding 
to all the needs of a suggested subject, she herself never seemed 
to broach one ; and, after hours of nightly watch, which ran 
through a period of weeks, in which I strove at the shameful 
occupation of the espial, I was compelled to admit that all her 
part Avas as purely unexceptionable as the most jealous husband 
could have wished it. 

But not so with the conduct of William Edgerton. His atten- 
tions were increasing. His passion was assuming some of the 
forms of that delirium to which, under encouragement, it is usu- 
ally driven in the end. He now passionately watched my wife’s 


172 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


coanieiiaiice, and no longer averted Iris glance when it suddenly 
encountered hers. His eyes, naturally tender in expression, 
now assumed a look of irrepressible ardency, from which, I now 
fancied — pleased to fancy — that hers recoiled! He would 
linger long in silence, silently watching her, and seemingly un- 
conscious, the while, equally of his scrutiny and his silence. At 
such times, I could perceive that Julia would turn aside, or her 
own eyes would be marked by an expression of the coldest va- 
cancy, which, but for other circumstances, or in any other con- 
dition of my mind, would have seemed to me conclusive of her 
indignation or dislike. But, when such became my thought, it 
was soon expelled by some suggestion from the busy devil of 
my imagination * 

“ They may well put on this appearance now ; but are such 
their looks when they meet, sometimes for a whole morning, in 
the painting-room?” Even here, the fiend was silenced by a 
fact which was revealed to me in one of my nocturnal watches. 

“ Clifford not at home ?” said Edgerton one evening as he 
entered, addressing my wife, and looking indifferently around 
the room. “ I wish.ed to tell him about some pictures which 
are to be seen at ’s room — really a lovely Guido — an in- 

fant Savior — and something, said to be by Carlo Dolce, though 
I doubt. You must see them. Shall 1 call for you to-morrow 
morning ?” 

“ I thank you, but have an engagement for the morning.” 

“Well, the next day. They will remain but a few days 
longer in the city.” 

“ I am sorry, but I shall not be able to go even the next day, 
I am so busy.” 

“ Busy ? ah I that reminds me to ask if you have given up 
the pencil altogether ? Have you wholly abandoned the studio ? 
I never see you now at work in the morning. I had no thought 
that you had so much of the fashionable taste for morning calls, 
shopping, and the like.” 

“ Nor have I,” was the quiet answer. “ I seldom leave home 
in the morning.” 

“ Indeed I” with some doubtfulness of countenance, almost 
amounting to chagrin — “ indeed I how is it that I so seldom 
see you, then ?” 


PROGRESS OP PASSION. 


173 


“ The cares of a household, I suppose, might be my sufficient 
excuse. While my liege lord works abroad, I find my duties 
sufficiently urgent to task all my time at home.” 

“ Really — but you do not propose to abandon the atelier en- 
tirely ? Clifford himself, with his great fondness for the art, 
will scarcely be satisfied that you should, even on a pretence 
of work.” 

“ I do not know. I do not think that my husband'' — the last 
two words certainly emphasized — “cares much about it. I 
suspect that music and painting, however much they delighted 
and employed our girlhood, form but a very insignificant part 
of our duties and enjoyments when we get married.” 

“But you do not mean to say that a fine landscape, or an 
exquisite head, gives you less satisfaction than before your mar- 
riage ?” 

“ I confess they do. Life is a very different thing before and 
after marriage. It seems far more serious — it appears to me a 
possession now, and time a sort of property which has to be 
economized and doled out almost as cautiously as money. I 
have not touched a brush this fortnight. I doubt if I have 
been in the painting-room more than once in all this time.” 

This conversation, which evidently discomfited William Ed- 
gerton, was productive to me of no small satisfaction. After a 
brief interval, consumed in silence, he resumed it : — 

“ But I must certainly get you to see these pictures. Nay, I 
must also — since you keep at home — persuade you to look 
into the studio to-morrow, if it be only to flatter my vanity by 
looking at a sketch which I have amused myself upon the last 
three mornings. By-the-way, why may we not look at it to- 
night ?” 

“ We shall not be able to examine it carefully by night,” was 
the answer, as I fancied, spoken with unwonted coldness and 
deliberation. 

“ So much the better for me,” he replied, with an inefiectual 
attempt to laugh ; “ you will be less able to discern its defects.” 

“ The same difficulty will endanger its beauties,” Julia an- 
swered, without offering to rise. 

“ Well, at least, you must arrange for seeing the pictures at 
They are to remain but a few days, and 1 would not 


174 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


have you miss seeing them for the world. Suppose you say 
Saturday morning V* 

“ If nothing happens to prevent,” she said ; “ and I will en- 
deavor to persuade Mr. Clifford to look at them with us.” 

“ Oh, he is so full of his law and clients, that you will hardly 
succeed.” 

This was spoken with evident dissatisfaction. The arrange- 
ment, which included me, seemed unnecessary. I need not say 
that I was better pleased with my wife than I had been for 
some time previous ; but here the juggling fiend interposed 
again, to suggest the painful suspicion that she knew of my 
whereabouts, of my jealousy, of my espionage ; that her words 
were rather meant for my ears than for those of Edgerton ; or, 
if this were not the case, her manner to Edgerton was simply 
adopted, as she had now become conscious of her own feelings 
— feelings of peril — feelings which would not permit her to 
trust herself. Ah ! she feared herself : she had discovered the 
passion of William Edgerton, and it had taught her the char- 
acter and tendency of her own. Was there ever more self- 
destroying malice than was mine ? I settled down upon this 
last conviction. My wife’s coldness was only assumed to pre- 
vent Edgerton from seeing her weakness ; and, for Edgerton 
himself, I now trembled with the conviction that I should have 
to shed his blood. 


CrROUv. 


175 


OtAPTER XXIV 

A GROUP. 

Tkis conviction now began to haunt my mind with all the 
punctuality of a shadow. It came to me unconsciously, uncall- 
ed for ; mingled with other thoughts and disturbed them all. 
Whether at my desk, or in the courts ; among men in the crowd- 
ed mart, or in places simply where the idle and the thoughtless 
congregate, it was still my companion. It was, however, still 
a shadow only ; a dull, intangible, half-formed image of the mind ; 
the crude creature of a fear rather than a desire ; for, of a truth, 
nothing could be more really terrible to me than the apparent 
necessity of taking the life of one so dear to me once, and still 
so dear to the only friends I had ever known. I need not say 
how silently I strove to banish this conviction. My struggles 
on this subject were precisely those which are felt by nervous 
men suddenly approaching a precipice, and, though secure, 
flinging themselves ofP, in the extremity of their apprehensions 
of that danger which has assumed in their imaginations an 
aspect so absorbing. With such persons, the extreme anxiety 
to avoid the deed, whether of evil or of mere danger, frequently 
provokes its commission. I felt that this risk encountered me. 
I well knew that an act often contemplated may be already con- 
sidered half-performed ; and though I could not rid myself of the 
impression that I was destined to do the deed the very idea of 
which made me shudder, I yet determined, with all the remaining 
resolution of my virtue, to dismiss it from my thought, as I re- 
solved to escape from its performance if I could. 

It would have been easy enough for me to have kept this 
resolution as it was enough for me to make it, had it not clashed 
with a superior passion in my mind ; but that blindness of heart 
under which I labored, impaired my judgment, enfeebled my 


176 


CONFESSION CP THE BLIND HEART. 


resolution, baffled my prudence, defeated all my faculties of 
self-preservation. I was, in fact, a monomaniac. On one sub- 
ject, I was incapable of thought, of sane reasoning, of fixed 
purpose. I am unwilling to distinguish this madness by the 
word “jealousy.” In the ordinary sense of the term it was not 
jealousy. Phrenologists would call it an undue development 
of self-esteem, diseased by frequent provocation into an irritable 
suspiciousness, which influenced all the offices of thought. It 
was certain, to myself, that in instituting the watch which I did 
over the conduct of my wife and William Edgerton, I did not 
expect to discover the commission of any gross act which, in the 
vulgar acceptation of the world, constitutes the crime of infidelity. 
The pang would not have been less to my mind, though every 
such act was forborne, if I perceived that her eyes yearned for 
his coming, and her looks of despondency took note of his ab- 
sence. If I could see that she hearkened to his words wdth the 
ears of one who deferred even to devotedness, and found that 
pleasure in his accents which should only have been accorded to 
mine. It is the low nature, alone, which seeks for develop- 
ments beyond these, to constitute the sin of faithlessness. Of 
looks, words, consideration, habitual deference, and eager atten- 
tion, I was quite as uxorious as I should have been of the warm 
kiss, or the yielding, fond embrace. They were the same in my 
eyes. It was for the momentary glance, the passing word, the 
forgetful sigh, that I looked and listened, while I pursued the 
unhappy espionage upon my wife and her lover. That he was 
her lover, was sufficiently evident — how far she was pleased 
with his devotion was the question to be asked and — answered ! 

The self-esteem which produced these developments of jeal- 
ousy, in my own home, was not unexercised abroad. The same 
exacting nature was busy among my friends and mere acquaint- 
ance. Of these I had but few ; to these I could be devoted ; for 
these I could toil ; for these I could freely have perished ! But 
I demanded nothing less from them. Of their consideration and 
regard I was equally uxorious as I was of the affections of my 
wife. I was an intcnsijier in all my relations, and was not wil- 
ling to divide or share my sympathies. I became suspicious 
when I found any of my acquaintance fonning new intimacies, 
and sunk into reserves which necessarily produced a severance 


A GROUP. 


177 


of the old ties between us. It naturally followed that my few 
fnends became fewer, and I finally stood alone. But enough of 
self-analysis, which, in truth, owes its origin to the very same 
mental quality which I have been discussing — the presence and 
prevalence of egoisme. Let us hurry our progress. 

My wife advised me of the visit which William Edgerton had 
proposed to the picture collection. 

“ I will go,” she said, “ if you will.” 

“ You must go without me.” 

“Ah, why 1 Surely, you can go one morning ?” 

“ Impossible. The morning is the time for business. That 
must be attended to, you know.” 

“ But you needn’t slave yourself at it because it is business, 
Edward. But that I know that you are not a money-loving 
man, I should suppose, sometimes, from the continual plea of 
business, that you were a miser, and delighted in filling old 
stockings to hide away in holes and chinks of the wall. Come, 
now, Saturday is not usually a busy day with you lawyers ; steal 
it this once and go with us. I lose half the pleasure of the sight 
always, when you are not with me, and when I know that you 
are engaged in working for me elsewhere.” 

“ Ah, you mistake, Julia. You shall not flatter me into such a 
faith. You lose precious little by my absence.” 

“But, Edward, Ido j believe me — it is true.” 

“ Impossible ! No, no, Julia, when you look on the Carlo 
Dolce and the Guido, you will forget not only the toils of the 
husband, but that you have one at all. You will forget my harsh 
features in the contemplation of softer ones.” 

“ Your features are not harsh ones, Edward.” 

“Nay, you shall not persuade me that I am not an Orson — 
a very wild man of the woods. I know I am. I know that I 
have harsh features; nay, I fancy you know it too, by this time, 
Julia.” 

“ I admit the sternness at times, Edward, but I deny the 
harshness. Besides, sternness, you know, is perfectly compati- 
ble with the possession of the highest human beauty. I am not 
sure that a certain portion of sternness is not absolutely neces- 
sary to manly beauty. It seems to me that I have never yet 

8 * 


178 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


seen what I call a handsome man, whose features had not a 
certain sweet gravity, a sort of melancholy defiance, in them 
which neutralized the effect of any effeminacy which mere 
beauty must liave had ; and imparted to them a degree of char- 
acter which compelled you to turn again and look, and made you 
remember them, even when they had disappeared from sight. 
Now, it may be the vanity of a wife, Edward, but it seems to me 
that this is the very sort of face which you possess.” 

“Ah ! you are very vain of me, I know — very !” 

“ Proud, fond — not vain !” 

“You deceive yourself still, I suspect, even with your dis- 
tinctions. But you must forego the pleasure of displaying my 
‘ stern beauties,’ as your particular possession, at the gallery. 
You must content yourself with others not so stern, though per- 
haps not less beautiful, and certainly more amiable. Edgerton 
will be your sufficient chaperon.” 

“ Yes, but I do not wish to be troubling Mr. Edgerton so fre- 
quently ; and, indeed, I would ratlier forego the pleasure of 
seeing the pictures altogether, than trespass in this way upon 
his attention and leisure.” 

“ Indeed, but I am very sure you do not trespass upon either. 
He is an idle, good fellow, relishes anything better than busi- 
ness, and you know has such a passion for painting and pictures 
that its indulgence seems to justify anything to his mind. He 
will forget everything in their pursuit.” 

All this was said with a studious indifference of manner. I 
was singularly successful in concealing the expression of that 
agony which was gnawing all the while upon my heart. I could 
smile, too, while I was speaking — while I w^as suffering ! Look 
calmly into her face and smile, with a composure, a strength, 
the very consciousness of which was a source of terrible over- 
throw to me at last. I was surprised to perceive an air of cha- 
grin upon Julia’s countenance, which was certainly unstudied. 
She was one of those who do not well conceal or cloak their real 
sentiments. The faculty of doing so is usually much more 
strongly possessed by women than by men — much more easily 
commanded — but she had little of it. Why should she wear 
this expression of disappointment — chagrin! Was she really 
anxious that I should attend herl I began to think so— began 


A GROUP. 179 

to relent, and think of promising that I would go with her, 
when she somewhat abruptly laid her hand upon my arm. 

“ Edward, you leave me too frequently^ You stay from me 
too long, particularly at evening. Do not forget, dear husband, 
how few female friends I have; how few friends. of any sort — 
how small is my social circle. Besides, it is expected of all 
young people, newly married, that they will be frequently to- 
gether; and when it is seen that they are often separate — that 
the wife goes abroad alone, or goes in the compajiy of persons 
not of the family, it begets a suspicion that all is not well — that 
there is no peace, no love, in the family so divided. Do not think, 
Edward, that I mean this reproachfully — that I mean complaint 
— that I apprehend the loss of your love : oh no ! I dread too 
greatly any such loss to venture upon its suspicion lightly, hut I 
would guard against the conjectures of others ” 

“ So, then, it is not that you really wish my company. It is be- 
cause you would simply maintain appearances.’’ 

“ I would do both, Edward. God knows I care as little for 
mere appearances, so long as the substances are good, as you do ; 
but I confess I would not have the neighbors speak of me as the 
neglected wife ; I would not have you the subject of vulgar 
reproach.” 

“ To what does all this tend I demanded impatiently. 

“ To nothing, Edward, if by speaking it I make you angry.” 

Do not speak it, then !” was my stern reply. 

“ I will not ; do not turn away — do not be angry here she 
sobbed once, convulsively ; but with an effort of which I had not 
thought her capable, she stifled the painful utterance, and con- 
tinued grasping my wrist as she spoke with both her hands, and 
speaking in a whisper — ^ 

“ You are not going to leave me in anger. Oh, no ! Do not ! 
Kiss me, dear husband, and forgive me. If I have vexed you, 
it was only because I was so selfishly anxious to keep you more 
with me — to be more certain that you are all my own !” 

I escaped from this scene with some difficulty. I should be 
doing my own heart, blind and wilful as it was, a very gross in- 
justice, if I did not confess that the sincere and natural deport- 
ment of Julia had rendered me largely doubtful of the good 
sense cr the good feeling of the course I was pursuing. But the 


180 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


effects of it were temporary only. The very feeling, thus forced 
upon me, that I was, and had been, doing wrong, was a humiliating 
one ; and calculated rather to sustain my self-esteem, even though 
it lessened the amount of justification which my jealousy may 
have supposed itself possessed of. The disease had been grow- 
ing too long within my bosom. It had taken too deep root — 
had spread its fibres into a region too rank and stimulating not 
to baffle any ordinary diligence on the part of the extirpator, 
even if he had been industrious and sincere. It had been grow- 
ing with my growth, had shared my strength from the beginning, 
was a part of my very existence ! Still, though not with that 
hearty fondness which her feeling demanded, I returned her ca- 
resses, folded her to my bosom, kissed the tears from her cheek, 
and half promised myself, though I said nothing of this to her, 
that I would attend her to the picture exhibition. 

But I did not. Half an hour before the appointed time I re- 
solved to do so ; but the evil spirit grew uppermost in that brief 
interval, and suggested to me a course more in unison with its 
previous counsellings. Under this mean prompting I prepared 
to go to the gallery, but not till my wife had already gone there 
under Edgerton’s escort. The object of this afterthought was 
to surprise them there — to enter at the unguarded moment, and 
read the language of their mutual eyes, when they least appre- 
hended such scrutiny. 

Pitiful as was this design, I yet pursued it. I entered the 
picture room at a moment which was sufficiently auspicious for 
my objects. They were the only occupants of the apartment. 
I learned this fact before I ascended the stairs from the keeper 
of the gallery, who sat in a lower room. The stairs were carpet- 
ed. I wore light thin pumps, which were noiseless. I may 
add, as a singular moral contradiction, that I not only did not 
lno^•e stealthily, but that I set down my feet with greater em- 
phasis than was usual with me, as if I sought, in this way to 
lessen somewhat the meanness of my proceeding. My approach, 
however, was entirely unheard ; and I stood for a few seconds 
in the doorway, gazing upon the parties without making them 
conscious of my intrusion. 

Julia was sitting, gazing, with hand lifted above her eyes, at 
a Murillo — a ragged Spanish boy, true equally to the life and 


A GKOUP. 


181 


to the peculiar characteristics of that artist — dark ground- 
work, keen, arch expression, great vivacity, with an air of 
pregnant humor which speaks of more than is shown, and 
makes you fancy that other pictures are to follow in which 
the same boy must appear in different phases' of feeeling and of 
fortune. 

I need not say that the pictures, however, called for a mo- 
mentary glance only from me. My glances were following my 
thoughts, and they were piercing through the only possible 
avenues, the cheeks, the lips, the tell-tale eyes, deep down into 
the very hearts of the suspected parties. They were so placed 
that, standing at the door, and half hidden from sight by a 
screen, I could see with tolerable distinctness the true exp- 
sion in each countenance, though I saw but half the face. Ju- 
lia was gazing upon the pictures, but Edgerton was gazing upon 
her ! He had no eyes for any other object ; and I fancied, from 
the abstracted and almost vacant expression of his looks, that I 
without startling him from his dream. In his features, speak- 
ing, even in their obliviousness of all without, was one sole, 
absorbing sentiment of devotion. His eyes were liveted with 
a strenuous sort of gaze upon her, and her only. He stood 
partly on one side, but still behind her, so that, without chang- 
ing her position, she could scarcely have beheld his counte- 
nance. I looked in vain, in the brief space of time which I 
employed in surveying them, but she never once turned her 
head ; nor did ho once withdraw his glance from her neck and 
cheek, a part only of which could have been visible to him 
where he stood. Her features, meanwhile, were subdued and 
placid. There was nothing which could make me dissatisfied 
with her, had I not been predisposed to this dissatisfaction ; and 
when the tones of my voice were heard, she started up to meet 
me with a sudden flash of pleasure in her eyes which illumi- 
nated her whole countenance. 

“ Ah ! you are come, then. I am so glad!” 

She little knew why I had come. I blushed involuntarily 
with the conviction of tlie base motive which had brought mo. 
he immediately grasped my arm, drew me to the contemplar 
tion of those pictures which had more particularly pleased her- 


182 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

self, absolutely seeming to forget tliat there was a tliircl person 
in the room. William Edgerton turned away and busied him- 
self, for the first time no doubt, in the examination of a land- 
scape on the opposite wall. I followed his movement with 
my glance for a single instant, but his face was studiously 
a'^<‘.rted. 


THE OLD GOOSE FINDS A YOUNG GANDER. 183 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE OLD GOOSE FINDS A YOUNG GANDER. 

We will suppose some months to have elapsed in this man- 
ner — months, to me, of prolonged torture and suspicion. Cir- 
cumstances, like petty billows of the sea, kept chafing upon the 
low places of my heart, keeping alive the feverish irritation 
which had already done so much toward destroying my peace, 
and overthrowing the guardian outposts of my pride and honor. 
How long the strife was to be continued before the ocean-tor- 
rents should be let in — before the wild passions should quite 
overwhelm my reason — was a subject of doubt, but not the less 
a subject of present and of exceeding fear. In these matters, 
1 need not say that there was substantially very little change 
in the character of events that marked the progress of my do- 
mestic life. William Edgerton still continued the course which 
he had so unwittingly begun. He still sought every opportu- 
nity to see my wife, and, if possible, to see her alone. He 
avoided me as much as possible ; seldom came to the office ; 
absolutely gave up his business altogether ; and, when we met, 
though his words and manner were solicitously kind, there was 
a close restraint upon the latter, a hesitancy about the former, 
a timid apprehensiveness in his eye, and a generally-shown 
reluctance to approach me, which I could not but see, and could 
not but perceive, at the same time, that he endeavored with 
ineffectual effort to conceal. He was evidently conscious that 
he was doing wrong. It was equally clear to me that lie lacked 
the manly courage to do right. What was all this to end in ? 
The question became rnoineiilly more .and more .serious. Sup- 
pose that he possessed no sort of influence over my wife ? Ever, 
suppose his advances to stop where they were at present — his 
course already, so far, was a humiliating indignity, allowing 


184 


CONFESSION, . OPt THE r>LTND HEART. 


that it became perceptible to the eyes of otbers. 41iat revela 
tion once made, there could be no more proper forbearance on 
the part of the husband. The customs of our society, the tone 
of public opinion — nay, outraged humanity itself — demanded 
then the interposition of the avenger. And that revelation was 
at hand. 

Meanwhile, the keenest eyes of suspicion could behold noth- 
ing in the conduct of Julia which was not entirely unexception- 
able. If William Edgerton was still persevering in his pursuit, 
Julia seemed insensible to his endeavors. Of course, they met 
frequently when it was not in my power to see them. It was 
my error to suppose that they met more frequently still — that 
he saw her invariably in his morning visits to the studio, which 
was not often the case — and, wdien they did meet, that she,de- 
rived quite as much satisfaction from the interview as himself. 
Of their meetings, except at night, when I was engaged in my 
miserable watch upon them, I could say nothing. Failing to 
note anything evil at such periods, my jealous imagination 
jumped to the conclusion that this was because my espionage 
was suspected, and that their interviews at other periods were 
distinguished by less prudence and reserve. And yet, could I 
have reasoned rightly at this period, I must have seen that, if 
such were the case, there would have been no such display of 
empressemenL as William Edgerton made at these evening visits. 
Did he expend his ardor in the day, did he apprehend my scru- 
tiny at night, he would surely have suppressed the eagerness 
of his glance — the profound, all -forgetting adoration which 
marked his wTole air, gaze, and manner. Nor should I have 
been so wretchedly blind to what was the obvious feeling of 
discontent and disquiet in her bosom. Never did evenings 
seem to pass with more downright dullness to any one party in 
the world. If Edgerton spoke to her, which he did not fre- 
quently, his address was marked by a trepidation and hesitancy 
akin to fear — a manner which certainly indicated anything but 
a foregone conclusion between them; wdiile lier answers, on the 
other hand, were singularly cold, merely replying, and calcu- 
lated invariably to discourage everything like a protracted con- 
versation. What was said by Edgerton was siidiciently harm- 
less — nor harmless merely. It was most commonly mere 


THE OLD GOOSE FINDS A YOUNG GANDER. 


185 


ordinary commonplace, the feeble effort of one who feels the 
necessity of speech, yet dares, not speak the voluminous pas- 
sions which alone could furnish him with energetic and manly 
utterance. Had the scales not been abundantly thick and cal- 
lous above my eyes, how easily might these clandestine scruti- 
nies have brought me back equally to happiness and my senses ! 
But though I thus beheld the parties, and saw the truth as I 
now relate it, there was always then some little trifling circum- 
stance that would rise up, congenial to suspicion, and cloud my 
conclusions, and throw me back upon old doubts and cruel jeal- 
ousies. Edgerton’s tone may, at moments, have been more fal- 
tering and more tender than usual ; Julia’s glance might some- 
times encounter his, and then they both might seem to fall, in 
mutual confusion, to the ground. Perhaps she sung some little 
ditty at his instance — some ditty that she had often sung for 
me. Nay, at his departure, she might have attended him to the 
entrance, and he may have taken her hand and retained his 
grasp upon it rather longer than was absolutely necessary for 
his farewell. How was I to know the degree of pressure which 
he gave to the hand within his own ? That single grasp, not 
unfrequently, undid all the better impressions of a whole even- 
ing consumed in these unworthy scrutinies. I will not seek 
further to account for or to defend this unhappy weakness. 
Has not the great poet of humanity said — 

“ Trifles, light as air. 

Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong 
As proofs of Holy Writ” ? 

Medical men tell us of a predisposing condition of the system 
for the inception of epidemic. It needs, after this, but the 
smallest atmospheric changes, and the contagion spreads, and 
blackens, and taints the entire body of society, even unto death. 
The history of the moral constitution is not unanalogous to this. 
The disease, the damning doubt, once in the mind, and the rest 
is easy. It may sleep and be silent for a season, for years, un- 
provoked by stimulating circumstances ; but let the moral atmo- 
sphere once receive its color from the suddenly-passing cloud, 
and the dark spot dilates within the heart, gi-ows active, and 
rapidly sends its poisonous and poisoning tendrils through all 


180 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

the avenues of mind. Its bitter secretions in my soul affected 
all the objects of my sight, even as the jaundiced man lives 
only in a saffron element. Perhaps no course of conduct on the 
part of my wife could have seemed to me entirely innocent. 
Certainly none could have been entirely satisfactory, or have 
seemed entirely proper. Even her words, when she spoke to 
me alone, were of a kind to feed my prevailing passion. Yet, 
regarded under just moods, they should have been the most con- 
clusive, not simply of her innocence, but of the devotedness of 
her heart to the requisitions of her duty. Her love and her 
sense of right seemed harmoniously to keep together. Gentlest 
reproaches chided me for leaving her, when she sought for none 
but myself. Sweetest endearments encountered my return, and 
fondest entreaties would have delayed the hour of my depart- 
ure. Her earnestness, when she implored me not to leave her 
so frequently at night, almost reached intensity, and had a 
meaning, equally expressive of her delicacy and apprehensions, 
which I was unhappily too slow to understand. 

Six months had probably elapsed from the time of Mr. Clif- 
ford’s death, when, returning from my office one day, who should 
I encounter in my wife’s company but her mother ? Of this 
good lady I had been permitted to see but precious little since 
my marriage. Not that she had kept aloof from our dwelling 
entirely. Julia had always conceived it a duty to seek her 
mother at frequent periods without regarding the ill treament 
which she received ; and the latter, becoming gradually recon- 
ciled to what she could no longer prevent, had at length so far 
put on the garments of Christian charity as to make a visit to 
her daughter in return. Of course, though T did not encourage 
it, I objected nothing to this renewed intercourse; which con- 
tinued to increase until, as in the present instance, I sometimes 
encountered this good lady on my return from my office. On 
these occasions 1 treated her with becoming respect, though 
without familiarity. I inquired after her health, expressed my- 
self pleased to see her, and joined my wife in requesting her to 
stay to dinner. Until now, she usually declined to do so ; and 
her manner to myself hitherto was that of a spoiled child in- 
dulging in his sulks. But, this day, to my great consternation, 
she was all smiles and 


THE OLD GOOSE FINDS A YOUNG GANDER. 1 

A change so sudden portended danger. I looked to my Avifc, 
whose grave countenance afforded me no explanation. I looked 
to the lady herself, my own countenance no doubt sufficiently 
expressive of the wonder which I felt, but there was little to be 
read in that c^uarter which could give me any clue to the mys- 
tery. Yet she chattered like a magpie ; her conversation run- 
ning on certain styles of dress, various purchases of silks, and 
satins, and other stuffs, which she had been buying — a budget 
of which, I afterward discovered, she had brought with her, in 
order to display to her daughter. Then she spoke of her teeth, 
newly filed and plugged, and grinned with frequent effort, that 
their improved condition might be made apparent. Her chat- 
ter was peculiarly that of a flippant and conceited girl-child of 
sixteen, whose head has been turned by premature bringing out, 
and the tuition of some vain, silly, wriggling mother. I could 
see, by my wife’s looks, that there was a cause for all this, and 
waited, with considerable apprehension, for the moment when 
we should be alone, in order to receive from her an explanation. 
But little of Mrs. Clifford’s conversation was addressed to me, 
though that little was evidently meant to be particularly civil. 
But, a little before she took her departure, which was soon after 
dinner, she asked me with some abruptness, though with a con- 
siderable smirk of meaning in her face, if I “ knew a Mr. Pat- 
rick Delaney.” I frankly admitted that I had not this pleas- 
ure ; and with a still more significant smirk, ending in a very 
affected simper, meant to be very pleasant, she informed me, as 
she took her leave, that Julia would make me wiser. I looked 
to Julia when she was gone, and, with some chagrin, and with 
few words, she unravelled the difficulty. Her mother — the old 
‘ fool — was about to be married, and to a Mr. Patrick Delaney, 
an Irish gentleman, fresh from the green island, who had only 
been some eighteen months in America. 

“ You seem annoyed by this affair, Julia ; but how does it 
affect you ?” 

“ Oh, such a match can not turn out well. This Mr. Delaney 
is a young man, only twenty-five, and what can he see in mother 
to induce him to marry her ? It can only be for the little pit- 
tance of property which she possesses.” 

I shrugged my shoulders while replying : — 


188 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

“ There must be some consideration in every marriage-con- 
tract.” 

“All! but, Edward, what sort of a man can it be to whom 
money is the consideration for marrying a woman old enough 
to be his mother 

“ And so little money, too. But, Julia, perhaps he marries 
her as a mother. He is a modest youth, who knows his juve- 
nility, and seeks becoming guardianship. But the thing does 
not concern us at all.” 

“ She is my mother, Edward.” 

“ True ; but still I do not see that the matter should concern 
us. You do not apprehend that Mr. Patrick Delaney will seek 
to exercise the authority of a father over either of us ?” 

“No 1 but I fear she will repent.” 

“ Why should that be a subject of fear which should be a 
subject of gratulation? For my part, I hope she may repent. 
We are told she can not be saved else.” 

Julia was silent. I continued: — 

“ But what brings her here, and makes her so suddenly affa- 
ble with me? That is certainly a matter which looks threat- 
ening. Does she explain this to you, Julia?” 

“ Not otherwise than by declaring she is sorry for former dif- 
ferences.” • 

“ Ah, indeed ! but her sorrow comes too late, and I very much 
suspect has some motive. What more? the shaft is not y6t 
shot.” 

“ You guess rightly ; she invites us to the wedding, arid in- 
sists that we must come, as a proof that we harbor no malice.” 

“ Is that all ?” 

“ All, I believe.” 

“ She is more considerate than I expected. Well, you prom- 
ised her ?” 

“No ; I told her I could say nothing without consulting yOu.” 

“ And would you wish to go, Julia ?” 

“ Oh, surely, dear husband.” 

“ We will both go, then.” 

A week afterward the affair took place, and we were among 
the spectators. 


THE HEaRT-FIEND’s ECHO. 


189 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE HEART-FIEND FINDS AN ECHO FROM THE FIEND WITHOUT. 

And a spectacle it was ! Mrs. Clifford, about to become Mrs. 
Delaney, was determined that the change in her situation should 
be distinguished by becoming eclat. Always a silly woman, 
fond of extravagance and show, she prepared to celebrate an 
occasion of the greatest folly in a style of greater extravagance 
than ever. She accordingly collected as many of her former 
numerous acquaintances as were still willing to appear within 
a circle in which wealth was no longer to be found. Her house 
was small, but, as has been elsewhere stated in this narrative, 
she had made it smaller by stuffing it with the massive and 
costly furniture which had been less out of place in her former 
splendid mansion, and had there much better accorded with her 
fortunes. She now still further stuffed it with her guests. Of 
course, many of those present, came only to make merry at 
her expense. Her husband was almost entirely unknown to 
any of them ; and it was enough to settle his pretensions in 
every mind, that, in the vigor of his youth, a really fine-looking, 
wc*il-inade person of twenty-five, he was about to connect him- 
self, in marriage, with a haggard old woman of fifty, whose 
personal charms, never very great, were nearly all gone ; and 
whose mind and manners, the grace of youth being no more, 
were so very deficient in all those qualities which might com- 
mend one to a husband. So far as externals went, ]Mr. Delaney 
was a very proper man. He behaved with sufficient decorum, 
and unexpected modesty ; and went through the ordeal as com- 
posedly as if the occurrence had been frequently before familiar; 
as indeed we shall discover in the sequel, w'as certainly the case 
But this does not concern us here. 


100 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

Three rooms were thrown open to the company. We had 
refreshments in abundance and great variety, and at a certain 
hour, we were astounded by the clamor of tamborine and fiddle 
giving due notice to the dancers. Among my few social ac- 
complishments, this of dancing had never been included. Nat- 
urally, I should, perhaps, be considered an awkward man. I 
was conscious of this awkwardness at all times when not ex- 
cited by action or some earnest motive. I was incapable of 
that graceful loitering, that flexibleness of mind and body, 
which excludes the idea of intensity, of every sort, and which 
constitutes one of the great essentials for success in a ball-room. 
It was in this very respect that my friend^ William Edgerton, 
may be said to have excelled most young men of our acquain- 
tance. He was what, in common speech, is called an accom- 
plished man. Of very graceful person, without much earnest- 
ness of character, he had acquired a certain fastidiousness of 
taste on the subjects of costume and manners, which, without 
Brummcllizing, he yet carried to an extent which betrayed a 
considerable degree of mental feebleness. This somewhat as- 
similated him to the fashionable dandy. He walked with an 
air equally graceful, noble, and unaffected. He was never on 
stilts, yet he was always en regie. He had as little mauvais 
konte as mauvais ton. In short, whatever might have been his 
deficiencies, he was confessedly a very neat specimen of the fine 
gentleman in its most commendable social sense. 

William Edgerton was among the guests of Mrs. Clifford. 
There had been no previous intimacy between the Edgerton 
and Clifford families, yet he had been specially invited. Mrs. 
C. could have had but a single motive for inviting him — so I 
thought — that of making her evening a jam. She had just 
that ambition of the lady of small fashion, who regards the 
number rather than the quality of her guests, and would prefer 
a saloon full of Esquimaux or Kanzas, and Avould partake of 
their sea-blubber, rather than lose the triumph of making more 
noise than her rival neighbors, the Sprigginses or Wigginses. 

William Edgerton did not seek me; but, when I left the side 
of my wife to pay my respects to some ladies at the opposite 
end of the room, he approached her. A keen pang that ren- 
dered me unconscious of everything I was saying — nay, even 


THE heart-fiend's ECHO. 


191 


of tlio persons to whom I was addressing myself — shot through 
my heart, as I beheld him crossing the floor to the place that I 
had left. Involuntarily, the gracefulness of his person and 
carriage provoked in my mind a contrast most unfavorable to 
me, between him and myself. It was no satisfaction to me at 
that time to reflect that I was less graceful only because I was 
more earnest, more sincere. This is usually the case, and is 
reasonably accounted for. Intensity and great earnestness of 
character, are wholly inconsistent with a nice attention to forms, 
carriage, demeanor. But what does a lady care for such distinc- 
tion ? Does she even suspect it ? Not often. If she could 
only fancy for a moment that the well-made but awkward man 
who traverses the room before her, carried in his breast a soul 
of such ardency and volume that it subjected his very motion 
arbitrarily to its own excitements, its own convulsions ; that 
the very awkwardness which offended her was the result of 
the most deep and passionate feelings — feelings which, like the 
buried flame in the mountain, are continually boiling up for 
utterance — convulsing the prison-house which retained them — 
shaking the solid earth with their pent throes, that will not al- 
ways be pent ! Ah ! these things do not move ladies’ fancies. 
There are very few^ endowed with that thoughtful pride which 
disdains surfaces. Julia Clifford was one of these few ! But 
I little knew it then. 

The approach of William Edgerton to my wife was a signal 
for my torture all that evening. From that moment my mind 
was wandering. I knew little what I said, or looked, or did. 
My chat with those around me became, on a sudden, bald and 
disjointed; and when I beheld the pair, both nobly formed — 
he tall, graceful, manly — she, beautiful and bending as a lily 
— a purity beaming, amid all their brightness, from her eye-s — 
a purity which, I had taught myself to believe, was no longer 
in her heart — when I beheld them advance into the floor, con- 
spicuous over all the rest, in most eyes, as they certainly were 
in mine — I can not describe — you may conjecture — the cold, 
fainting sickness which overcame my soul. I could have lain 
myself down upon the lone, midnight rocks, and surrendered 
myself to solitude and storm for ever. 

They entered the stately measures of the Spanish dance 


102 


CONFESSKTN, OR THE BUND HEART. 


But tlic grace of movement which won the murmuring applause 
of all around me, only increased the agony of my afflictions. 
I saw their linked aims — the compliant, willing movements of 
their mutual forms — and dark were the images of guilt and 
hateful sus})icion which entered my brain and grew to vivid 
forms, in action before me. I fancied the fierce, passionate 
yearnings in the heart of Edgerton ; I trembled when I con- 
jectured what fancies filled the heart of Julia. I can not linger 
over the torturing influence of those moments — moments which 
seemed ages ! Enough that I was maddened with the delirium, 
now almost as its height, which had been for months preying 
upon my brain like some corroding sea’pent. 

The dance closed. Edgerton conducted her to a seat and 
placed himself beside her. I kept aloof. I watched them from 
a distance ; and in sustaining this watch, I was compelled to 
recall my senses with a stern degree of resolution which should 
save my feelings from the detection of those inquisitive glances 
which I fancied were all around me. If I was weakest among 
men, in the disease which destroyed my peace. Heaven knows 
I was among the strongest of men in concealing its expression 
at the very moment when every pulsation of my heart was an 
especial agony. I affected indifference, threw myself into the 
midst of a group of such people as talk of their neighbor’s 
bonnets or breeches, the rise of stocks, or the fall of rain ; and 
how Mrs. Jenkins has set up her carriage, and Mr. Higgins 
has been compelled to set down, and to sell out his. Interest- 
ing details, perhaps, without which the nine in ten might as 
well be tongueless or tongue-tied for ever. This stiiff I had to 
hear, and requite in like currency, while my brain was boiling, 
and dim, but terrible images of strife, and storm, and agony, 
were rushing through it with howling and hisses. There I sat, 
thus seemingly engaged, but with an eye ever glancing covert- 
ly to the two, who, at that moment, absorbed every thought of 
my mind, every feeling of my heart, and filled them both with 
the bitterest commotion. The glances of their mutual eyes, 
the expression of lip and cheek, I watched with the keenest 
analysis of suspicion. In Julia, I saw sweetness mixed with a 
delicate reserve. She seemed to speak but little. Her eyes 
wandered from lier companion — frequently to where I eat — 


THE HEART-FIEND'S ECHO. 


19 ? 


but I gave myself due credit, at such moments, for the ability 
with wliich I conducted my own espionage. My inference — 
equally unjust and unnatural — that her timid glances to my- 
self denoted in her bosom a consciousness of wrong — seemed 
to me the most natural and inevitable inference. And when I 
noted the ardency of Edgerton’s gaze, his close, unrelaxing at- 
tentions, the seeming forgetfulness of all around wliich he 
manifeked, I hurried to the conclusion that his words were of 
a character to suit his looks, and betray in more emphatic ut- 
terance, the passion which they also betrayed. 

The signal, after a short respite, devoted to fruits, ices, &c., 
was made for the dancers, and William Edgerton rose. I noted 
his bow to my wife, saw that he spoke, and necessarily con- 
cluded, that he again solicited her to dance. Her lips moved 
— she bowed slightly — and he again took his seat beside her. 
I inferred from this that she declined to dance a second time. 
She was certainly more prudent than himself. I assigned to 
prudence — to policy — on her part, what might well have been 
placed to a nobler motive. I went further. 

“She will not dance with him,” said the busy fiend at my 
shoulder, “ for the very reason that she prefers a quiot seat be 
side him. In the dance they mingle with others ; they can not 
speak with so much ease and safety. Now she has him all *0 
herself.” 

I dashed away, forgetful, gloomily, from the knot by which 
I had been encompassed. I passed into the adjoining room, 
which was connected by folding doors, with that I left. The 
crowd necessarily grouped itself around the dancers, and gaiiio ’ 
a window-jamb, I stood absolutely forgetting where I was 
alone among the many — with my eye stretching over the 
heads of the flying masses, to the remote spot where my wife 
still sat with Edgerton. I was aroused from my hateful dream 
by a slight touch upon my arm. I started with a painful sense 
of my own weakness — with a natural dread that the secret 
misery under which I labored was no longer a secret. I writhed 
under the conviction that the cold, the sneering, and the worth 
less, were making merry with my afflictions. I met the gaz i- 
of the bride — the mistress of ceremonies — my wife’s mother 
Mrs. Delaney, late Clifford. I shuddered as I beheld her 


194 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


glance. I could not mistake the volume of meaning in hei 
smile — that wretched smile of her thin, withered lips, brimful 
of malignant cunning, which said emphatically as such smile 
could say : — 

“ I SCO you on the rack ; I know that you are writhing; and 
I enjoy your tortures.” 

I started, as if to leave her, with a look of fell. defiance, roused, 
ready to burst forth into utterance, upon my own face. But she 
gently detained my arm. 

“You are troubled.” 

“ No.”. 

“ Ah ! but you are. Stop awhile. You will feel better.” 

“ Thank you ; but I feel very well.” 

“ No, no, you do not. You can not deceive me. I know 
where the shoe pinches; but what did you expect? Were you 
simple enough to imagine that a woman would be true to her 
husband, who was false to her own mother ?” 

“ Fiend !” I muttered in her ear. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” was the unmeasured response of the bel- 
dame, loud enough for the whole house to hear. I darted from 
her gi’asp, which would have detained me still, made my way 
— how I know not — out of the house, and found myself almost 
gasping for breath, in the open air of the street. 

She, at least, had been sagacious enough to find out my secret! 


KINGSLEY. 


195 


OHAPTER XXVII. 

KINGSLEY. 

Tee fiendish suggestion of the mother, against the purity of 
her own child, almost divested me, for the moment, of my own 
rancor — almost deprived me of my suspicions! Could any- 
thing have been more thoroughly horrible and atrocious I It 
certainly betrayed how deep was the malignant hatred which 
she had ever borne to myself, and of which her daughter was 
now required to bear a portion. What a volume of human 
depravity was opened on my sight, by that single utterance of 
this wretched mother. Guilt and sin ! ye are, indeed, the mas- 
ters everywhere ! How universal is your dominion ! How ye 
rage — how ye riot among souls, and minds, and fancies — never 
utterly overthrown anywhere — busy always — everywhere — 
sovereign in how many hapless regions of the heart I Who is 
pure among men ? Who can be sure of himself for a day — 
an hour? Precious few I None, certainly, who do not distrust 
their own strength with a humility only to be won from prayer 
— prayer coupled with moderate desires, and the presence of a 
constant thought, which teaches that time is a mere agent of 
eternity, and he who works for the one only, will not even be 
secure of peace during the period for which he works. Truly, 
he who lives not for the future is the very last who may reason- 
ably hope to enjoy the blessings of the present. 

But this was not the season, nor was mine the mood, for 
moral reflections of any sort. My secret was known ! That 
was everything. When the conduct of William Edgertcn had 
become such, as to awaken the notice of third persons, T was 


confession, or the blind heart. 

justified in exacting from him the heavy responsibility he hud 
incurred. The vague, indistinct conviction had long floated be- 
fore my mind, that I Avould he required to take his life. The 
period which was to render this task necessary, was that which 
had now arrived — when it had been seen by others — not inter- 
ested like myself — that he had passed the bounds of propriety. 
Of course, I was arguing in a circle, from which I should have 
found it impossible to extricate myself. Thousands might have 
seen that I was jealous, without being able to see any just cause 
for my jealousy. It was, however, quite enough for a proud 
spirit like my own, that its secret fear should be revealed. It 
did not much matter, after this, whether iny suspicions were, or 
were not causeless. It was enough that they were known — 
that busy, meddling women, and men about town, should dis- 
tinguish me with a finger — should say: “His wife is very 
pretty and — very charitable !” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” 

I, too, could laugh, under such musings, and in the spirit of 
Mrs. Delaney — late Clifford. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” The street echoed, beneath the windows 
of that reputable lady, with my involuntary, fiendish laughter. 
I stood there — and the music rang through my senses like the 
cries of exulting demons. She was there — of my wife the 
tlioughts ran thus, she was there, whirling, perchance, in the 
mazes of that voluptuous dance, then recently become fashionable 
among us ; his arm about her waist — her form inclining to his, as 
if seeking support and succor — and both of them forgetting all 
things but the mutual intoxication which swallowed up all things 
and thoughts in the absorbing sensuality of one ! Or, perhaps, 
still apart, they sat to themselves — her ear fastened upon his 
lips — her consciousness given wholly to his discourse ; and that 
discourse! — “Ha! ha! ha!” — I laughed again, as I hurried 
away from the spot, with gigantic strides, taking the direction 
which led to my own lonely dwelling. 

All was stillness there, but there was no peace. I entered 
the piazza, threw myself into a chair, and gazed out upon the 
leaves and waters, trying to collect my scattered thoughts — try- 
ing to subdue my blood, that my thoughts might meet in delibera- 
tion upon the desolating prospect which was then spread before 


KINGSLEY. 


197 


me. But I struggled for this in vain. But one tliought was 
mine at that hour. But one fearful image gathered in complete- 
ness and strength before my mind ; and that was one calcula- 
ted to banish all others and baffle all their deliberations. 

•‘The blood of William Edgerton must be shed, and by 
these hands ! My disgrace is known ! There is no help 
for it !” 

I had repeatedly resolved this gloomy conviction in my mind. 
It was now to receive shape and substance. It was a thing no 
longer to be thought upon. It was a thing to be done ! This 
necessity staggered me. The kindness of the father, the kind- 
ness and long true friendship of the son himself, how could I re- 
Quite this after such a fashion ? How penetrate the peaceful 
home of that fond family with an arm of such violence, as to 
rend their proudest offspring from the parental tree, and, per- 
haps, in destroying it, blight for ever the venerable trunk upon 
which it was borne ] Let it not be fancied that these feelings 
were without effect. Let it not be supposed that I weakly, 
willingly, yielded to the conviction of this cruel necessity — that 
I determined, without a struggle, upon this seemingly neces- 
sary measure ! Verily, I then, in that dreary house and hour, 
wrestled like a strong man with the unbidden prompter, who 
counselled me to the deed of blood. I wrestled with him as the 
desperate n}an, knowing the supernatural strength of his enemy, 
wrestles with a demon. The strife was a fearful one. I could 
not suppress my groans of agony ; and the cold sweat gather- 
ed and stood upon my forehead in thick, clammy drops. 

But the struggle was vain to effect my resolution. It had 
been too long present as a distinct image before my imagination. 
I had already become too familiar with its aspects. It had the 
look of a fate to my mind. I fancied myself — as probably 
most men will do, whose self-esteem is very active — the victim 
of a fate. My whole life tended to confirm this notion. I was 
chosen out from the beginning for a certain work, in which, my- 
self a victim, I was to carry out the designs of destiny in the 
Ofise of other victims. I had struggled long not to believe this 
— not to do this work. But the struggle was at last at an end. 
I was convinced, finally. I was ready for the work. I was 
resigned to my fate. But oh ! how grateful once had one of these 


19« 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


victims seemed in my eyes ! How beautiful, and stili now dear 
was the other ! 

I rose from my seat and struggle, with the air of one strength- 
ened by thoughtful resolution for any act. Prayer could not 
have strengthened me more. I felt a singular degree of strength. 
I can well understand that of fanaticism from my own feelings. 
Nothing, in the shape of danger, could have deterred me from 
the deed. I positively had no remaining fear. But, how was it 
to be done? With this inquiry in my mind, still unanswered, 
I took a light, went into my study, and drew from my escritoir 
the few small weapons which I had in possession. These are 
soon named. One was a neat little dirk — broad in blade, 
double-edged, short — sufficient for all ray purposes. I examined 
my pistols and loaded them — a small, neat pair, the present of 
Edgerton himself. This fact determined me not to use them. 
I restored them to the escritoir ; put the dagger between the folds 
of my vest, and prepared to leave the house. 

At this moment a heavy knocking was heard at the gate I 
resumed my seat in the piazza until the servant should report 
the nature of the interruption. He was followed in by my 
friend Kingsley. 

“ I am glad to find you home,” said he abruptly, grasping 
my hand ; “ home, and not a-bed. The hour is late, I know, 
but the devil never keeps ordinary hours, and men, driven by 
his Satanic majesty, have some excuse for following his ex- 
ample.” 

This exordium promised something unusual. The manner of 
Kingsley betrayed excitement. Nay, it was soon evident he 
had been taking a superfluous quantity of wine. His voice 
was tliick, and he spoke excessively loud in order to be intelligi- 
ble. There was something like a defying desperation in his 
tones, in the dare-devil swagger of his movement, and the almost 
iron pressure of his grasp upon my fingers. I subdued my 
own passions — nay, they were subdued — singularly so, by the 
resolution I had made before his entrance, and was a61e, there- 
fore, to appear calm and smooth as summer water in his cyca. 

“ What’s the matter ?” I asked. “ You seem excited. No evif. 
1 trust ?” 

“ Evil, indeed ! Not much ; but < \'on if it were, I tell you 


KINGS! E‘' 


Ned Clifford, I am just now in the mood to say, * ilivil he thou, 
my good !’ I have reason to say it ; and, by the powers, it will 
not be said only. 1 will make evh my good after a fashion of 
my own ; but how much good or how little evil, will be yet an- 
other question.'^ 

I was interested, in spite of myself, by the vehemence and 
unusual seriousness of my companion’s manner. It somewhat 
harmonized with my own temper, and in a measure beguiled 
me into a momentary heedlessness of my particular griefs. I 
urged him to a more frank statement of the things that troubled 
him. 

“ Can I serve you in anything ?” was the inquiry which con- 
cluded my assurance that I was sufficiently his friend to sym- 
pathize with him in his afflictions. 

“ You can serve me, and I need your service. You can serve 
me in two respects : nay, if you do not, I know not which side 
to turn for service. In the first place, then, I wish a hundred 
dollars, and I wish it to-night. In the next place, I wish a 
companion — a man not easily scared, who will follow where 
I load him, and take part in a ‘ knock down and drag out,’ if 
it should become necessary, without asking the why and the 
wherefore.” 

“ You shall have the money, Kingsley.” 

“ Stay ! Perhaps I may never pay it you again.” 

I shall regret that, for I can ill afford to lose any such sum ; 
but, even to know that would not prevent me from lending you 
in your need. It is enough that you are in want. You tell 
me you are.” 

“ I am ; but my wants are not such as a pure moralist, how- 
ever strong might be his friendship, would be disposed to gratify. 
I shall stake that money on the roll of the dice.” 

“ Impossible ! You do not game !’’ 

“ True as a gospel ! Hark you, Clifford, and save us the 

homily. I am a ruined man — ruined by the d d dice and 

the deceptive cards. I shall pay you back the hundred dollars, 
but I shall have precious little after that.” 

“ But, surely, I was not misinformed. You were rich a few 
years ago.” 

“ A few months ! But the case is the same. I am poor now. 


200 


CONF'^SSION. Olt THE BLIND HEART 


My riclics liad wings. I am reduced to my tail-^catliers ; but I 
will floulrisli with these to the last. I have fallen among thieves 
They have clipped my plumage — close! close I They have 
stripped me of everything, but some small matters which, when 
sold, will just suffice to get me horse or halter. Some dirty 
acres in Alabama, are all I absolutely have remaining of any 
real value. But there is one thing that I may have, if I stake 
boldly for it.” 

You will only lose again. The hope of a gamester rises, 
ill due degree, with the increasing lightness of his pockets.” 

“ Do not mistake me. I hope nothing from your hundred 
dollars ; indeed, fifty will answer. I propose to employ it only 
as a pretext. I expect to lose it, and lose it this very night. 
But it will give me an opportunity to ascertain what I have 
suspected — too late, indeed, to save myself — that I have been 
the victim of false dice and figured cards. You say you will 
let me have the money — will you go with me — will you see 
me through ?” 

He extended his hand as he spoke, I grasped it. He shook 
it with a hearty feeling, while a bright smile almost dissipated 
the cloud from his face. 

“ You are a man, Clifford ; and now, would you believe it, 
our excellent, immaculate young friend, Mr. William Edgerton, 
refused me this money.” 

“ Strange 1 Edgerton is not selfish — he is nov mean ■ From 
that vice he is certainly free.” 

“ By G-d, I don’t know that I He refused me the money , 
refused to go with me. I saw him at eight o’clock, at his own 
room, where he was rigging himself out for some d d tea- 

drinking ; told him my straits, my losses, my object and all ; 
and what was his plea, think you % Why, he disapproved of 
gambling; couldn’t think of lending me a sixpence for any 
such purpose ; and, as for going into such a suspected quarter 
as a gambling-house — wouldn’t do it for the world ! Was there 
ever such a puritan — such a humbug 1” 

I did William Edgerton only justice in my reply ; — 

“ I’ve no doubt, Kingsley, that such are his real principles. 
He would have lent you thrice the money; freely, had not your 
object been avowed.” 


KINGSLEY. 


201 

“ But wliat a devil sort of despotism is that ! Oin t a 
friend get drunk, or game, or swagger ? may lie not depart 
from tlie highway, and sidle into an alley, without souring 
his friend’s temper and making him stingy ? I don’t under- 
stand it at all. I’m glad, at least, to find you are of another 
sort of stufp.” 

“Nay, Kingsley, I will lend you the money — go with you, 
as you desire ; but, understand me, I do not, no more than Ed- 
gerton, approve of this gambling.” 

“ Tut, tut ! I don’t want you to preach, though I could hear 
you with a devilish sight better temper than him. There’s a 
hundred things that one’s friend don’t approve of, but shall he 
desert him for all that ? Leave him to be plucked, and kickeci 
and abandoned; and, moralizing, with a grin over his faiiv 
say, ‘ I told you so ! ’ No ! no ! Give me the fellow that’ll 
stand by me — keep me out of evil, if he can, but stand by 
me, nevertheless, at all events ; and not suffer me to be swal- 
lowed up at the last moment, when an outstretched finger 
might save !” 

“ But, am I to think, Kingsley, that my help can do this ?” 

“ No ! not exactly — it may — but if it does not, what then? 
I shall lose the money, but you sha’n’t. But, truth to speak, 
Clifford, I do not propose to myself the recovery of w'hat is 
lost. I know I have been the prey of sharpers. That is to 
say, I have every reason to believe so, and I have had a hint 
to that effect. I have a spice of the devil in me, accordingly 

— a mocking, mortifying devil, that jeers me with my d d 

simplicity ; and I propose to go and let the swindlers know, 
in a way as little circuitous as possible, that I am not blind 
to the fact that they have made an ass of me. There will 
be some satisfaction, in that. I will write myself down an 
ass, for their benefit, only to enjoy the satisfaction of kick- 
ing a little like one. I invite you on a kicking expedi- 
tion.” 

I felt for my dagger in my bosom, as I answered; “Very 
good ! Have you weapons ?” 

“ Hickory ! You see ! a moderate axe-handle, that’ll make 
its sentiments understood You are warned ; you see what 

9 =^ 


202 CONFESSION, ( .1 THE BLIND HEART. 

you are to expect. I will not take you in. Are you ready for 
a scratch 

“Aliens!” I replied indifferently. The truth is, my bosom 
was full of a recklessness of a far more sweeping character 
than his own. I was in the mood for strife. It promised 
only tlie more thoroughly to prepare me for the darker trial 
which w’as before me, and which my secret soul was medita- 
ting all the while with iateiLBe gloomy tenacity of 
purpose. 


MORALS OF ENTERPRISE. 


203 


OHA^ TEK XXVIII. 

MORALS Oif ENTERPRISE. 

I GOT liiin the money he requiied ; and we were about to set 
forth, when he exclaimed abruptly . — 

“ Put money in thy own purse, Clifford. It may be neces- 
sary to practise a ruse de guene. In playing my game, 
it may be important that you should iseem to play one also. 
You have no scruples to fling the dice cr iliit the cards for the 
nonce.” 

“ None ! But I should like to know yonr plans. Tell me, 
in the first place, your precise object.” 

“ Simply to detect certain knaves, and save certain fools. 
The knaves have ruined me, and I make no lamentations ; but 
there are others in their clutches still, quite as ignorant as my- 
self, who may be saved before they are stripped entirely. The 
object is not a bad one ; for the rest, trust to me. I mean no 
harm ; a little mischief only ; and, at most, a tweak of one 
proboscis or more. There’s risk, of a certainty, as there is in 

sucking an egg ; but you are a man ! Not like that d d 

milksop, who gives up his friend as soon as he gets poor, and 
proffers him a sermon by way of telling him— precious infor- 
mation, truly — that he’s in a fair way to the devil. The toss 
of a copper for such friendship.” 

The humor of Kingsley tallied somewhat with my own. It 
had in it a spice of recklessness Avhich pleased me. Perhaps, 
too, it tended somewhat to relieve and qualify the intenseness 
of that excitement in my brain, which sometimes rose to such 
a pitch as led me to apprehend madness. That I was a 
monomaniac has been admitted, pcihaps not a moment sro.- 


CONFE^ION, Oil THE BLIND HEART. 

for the author’s candor. The sagacity of the reader made him 
independent of the admission. 

“ Your beggar,” said he, someAvhat abruptly, “ has the only 
true feeling of independence. Absolutely, I never knew till 
now what it was to be thoroughly indifferent to what might 
come to-morrow. I positively care for nothing. I am the first 
prince Sans Souci. That shall be my title when I get among 
the Cumanches. I will have a code of laws and constitution 
to suit my particular humor, and my chief penalties shall be in- 
flicted upon your fellows who grunt. A sigh shall incur a 
week’s solitary confinement ; a sour look, pillory ; and for a 
groan, the hypochondriac shall lose his head ! My prime 
minister shall be the fellow who can longest use his tongue with- 
out losing his temper ; and the man who can laugh and jest 
.shall always have his plate at my table. Good-humored people 
shall have peculiar privileges. It shall be a certificate in one’s 
favor, entitling him to so many acres, that he takes the world 
kindly. Such a man shall have two wives, provided he can 
keep them peacefully in the same house. His daughters shall 
have dowii(3S from government. The prince of Sans Souci will 
himself provide for them.” 

1 made some answer, half jest, half earnest, in a mood of 
mocking bitterness, which, perhaps, more truly accorded with 
the temper of both of us. He did not perceive the bitterness, 
however. 

“ You jest, but mine is not altogether jest. Half-gerious 
, glimpses of what I tell you float certainly before my eyes. 
Such things may happen yet, and the southwest is the world in 
which you are yet to see many wondrous things. The time 
must coiae when Texas shall stretch to Mexico. These mise- 
rable slaves and reptiles — mongrel Spaniards and mongrel In- 
dians — can not very long bedevil that great country. It must 
fall into other hands. It must be ours ; and who, when that 
time comes, will carry into the field more thorough claims than 
mine. Master of myself, fearing nothing, caring for nothing; 
with a gallant steed that knows my voice, and answers with 
whinny and pricked ears to my encouragement ; with a rifle 
'Iia, v.an clip a Mexican — dollar or man — at a hundred yards, 
■tnd a icart that can defy the devil over his own dish, and vith 


MORALS OF ENTERPRISE. 


205 


but one spoon between us — and who so likely to in liis prin- 
cipality as myself? Look to see it, Oliffor i , I shall be a prince 
in IMexico ; and when you hear of the prince Sans Souci bo 
assured yon know the man. Seek me then, and ask what you 
will. You have carte hlanche from this moment.” 

“ I shall certainl}' keep it in mind, prince.” 

“ Do so : laugh as you please ; it is only becoming that you 
should laugh in the presence of Sans Souci ; but do not laugh 
in token of irreverence. You must not be too skeptical. It 
does not follow because I am a dare-devil that I am a thought- 
less one. I have been so, perhaps, but from this moment 1 go 
to work ! I shall be fettered by fortune no longer. Thank 
Heaven, that is now done — gone — lost ; I am free from its in 
cumbrance ! I feel myself a prince, indeed ; a man, every inch 
of me. This night I devote as a fitting finish to my old lifeless 
existence. 

“Hear me!” he continued; “you laugh again, Clifford — 
very good ! Laugh On, but hear me. You shall hear more of 
me in time to come. I fancy I shall be a fellow of considerable 
importance, not in Texas simply, or in Mexico, but here -here 
in your own self-opinionated United States. Suppose a few 
things, and go along with me while I speak them. Thrt Texas 
must stretch to Mexico I hold to be certain. A very few years 
will do that. It needs only thirty thousand more men from 
our southern and southwestern States, and the brave old Eng 
lish tongue shall arouse the best echoes in the city of Monte 
zuma ! That done, and floods of people pour in from all quar 
ters. It needs nothing but a feeling of security and peace — a 
conviction that property will be tolerably safe, under a tolerably 
stable government — in other words, an Anglo-Saxon govern- 
jnent — to tempt millions of discontented emigrants from all quar- 
ters of the world. Will this result have no results of its own, 
think you? Will the immense resources of Mexico and Texas, 
represented, as they then will be, by a stern, pressing, per- 
forming people, have no effect upon these states of yours t 
They will have the greatest ; nay, they will become essential 
to balance your own federal weight, and keep you all in equi- 
librio. For lool: you, the first hubbub with Great Britain gives 
voii Canada, at he expense of some of your coast-towns, a few 


CONB'ESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 




£r*illions of treasure, and the loss of fifty thousand men. A 
1: ad exchange for the south ; for Canada will make six ponder- 
ous states, the policy and character of which will be New Eng- 
land all over To balance this you will have yo^ir Florida ter- 
ritory,* of which iwo. feeble states may be made. Not enough 
for your purposes. But the same war with England will render 
it necessary that your fleet should take possession of Cuba; 
which, after a civil apology to Spain for taking such a liberty 
with her possessions, and, perhaps, a few million'' by way of 
hush money, you carve into two more states, and, in this man- 
ner, try to bolster up your federal relations. How many of her 
'Vest India islands Great Britain will be able to keep after 
such a war, is another problem, the solution of which will de- 
pend upon the relative strength of fleets and success of seaman- 
ship. These islands, which should of right be ours, and with- 
out which we can never be sure against any maritime power so 
great and so arrogant as England, once conquered by our arms, 
And their natural, moral, and social affinities in the southern 
states entirely ; and, so far, contribute to strengthen you in 
your congressional conflicts. But these are not enough, for the 
simple reason that the population of states, purely agricultural, 
never makes that progress which is made in this respect by a 
.ommcreial and manufacturing people. With the command of 
':';he gulf, the possession of an independent fleet by the Texans, 
the poli.ical characteristics of the states of Carolina, Georgia, 
Fionda, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas, must 
■ ndergo certain marked changes, which can only be neutralized 
•>y the ^..aoption, on the part of these states, of a new policy 
‘.orresponding with their change of interests. How far the 
cultivation of cotton by Texas will lead to its abandonment in 
Carolina and Georgia, is a question which the next ten years 
must solve. That they will he compelled to abandon it is in- 
evitable, unless they can succeed in raising the article at six 
cents ; a probability which nc cotton-planter in either of these 
etates will be willing to contemplate now for an instant. Mean- 
while. Texas is spreading herself right and left. She conquers 
Ihe Ciimanches, subdues the native mongrel Mexicans. Her 
Houotons and Lamars are succeeded by other and abler men, 
* Florida, since admitted, but unhappily, as a single state. 


MORALS OF ENTERPRISE. 


under whose control the evils of government, which followed 
the sway of such small animals as the Guerreros, and the Boli 
vars, the Bustamentes, and Sant’ Annas, are very soon eradi 
cated ; and the country, the noblest that God ever gave to man, 
in the hands of men, becomes a country ! — a great and gloriou- 
country — stretching from the gulf to the Pacific, and providL 
the natural balance, which, in a few years, the southern staie^. 
of this Union will inevitably need, by which alone your great 
confederacy will he kept together. You see, therefore, why I 
speed to Texas. Should I not, with my philosophy, my horse, 
and my rifle — not to speak of stout heart and hand — reason 
ably aspire to the principality of Sans Souci? Laugh, if yon 
please, but be not irreverent. You shall have carte hlanclie then 
if you will have a becoming faith now, on the word of a prince 
I say it. It is written — Sans Souci.”* 

“ Altissimo, excellentissimo, serenissimo !'' 

“ Bravissimo, you improve ; you will make a courtier — but 
mum now about my projects. We must suppress our dignities 
here. We are at the entrance of our hell !” 

We had reached the door of a low habitation in a secluded 
street. The house was of wood — an ordinary hovel of two 
stories. A cluster of similar fabrics surrounded it, most of which, 
I afterward discovered — though this fact could not be con 
jectured by an observer from the street — were connected by 
blind alleys, inner courts, and chambers and passages running 
along the ground floors. We stopped an instant, Kingsley 
having his hand upon the little iron knocker, a single black ring, 
that worked against an ordinary iron knob. 

“ Before I knock,” said he, in a whisper, “ before I knock, 
Clifford, let me say that if you have any reluctance — ” 

“ None ! none ! knock !” 

“ You will meet with some dirty rascals, and you must not 
only meet them with seeming civility, but as if you shared in 
their tastes — sought the same objects only — tlie getting of 
money — the only object which alone is clearly comprehensible 
by their understanding.” 

“ Go ahead ! I will see you through.” 

^ All these speculations were written in 1840-41 . I need not remark U])on 
those which have since been verified. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

A word more ! Get yourself in play at a different table 
from me. You will find rogues enough around, ready to relie-ve 
^ ou of your Mexicans. Leave me to my particular enemy ; 
you will soon see whose shield I touch — but keep an occasion- 
al eye upon us ; and all that I ask farther at your hands, should 
V DU see us by the ears, is to keep other fingers from taking hold 
J m*ne.” 

A heavy stroke of the knocker, followed by three light ones 
and a second heavy stroke, produced us an answer from within. 
The door unclosed, and by the light of a dim lamp, I discover- 
er before me, as a sort of warden, a little yellow, weather-beaten, 
si in-dried Frenchman, whom I had frequently before seen at a 
fruit-shop in another part of the city. He looked at me, how- 
ever, without any sign of recognition — with a blank, dull, in- 
different countenance ; motioned us forward in silence, and 
reclosing the door, sunk into a chair immediately behind it. I 
followed my companion through a passage which was unfathom- 
ably dark, up a flight of stairs, which led us into a sort of 
refreshment room. Tables were spread, with decanters, glasses, 
and tumblers upon them, that appeared to be in continual use. 
In a recess, stood that evil convenience of most American es- 
tablishments, whether on land or sea, a liquor bar ; its shelves 
crowded with bottles, all of which seemed amply full, and ready 
to complete the overthrow of the victim, which the other appli- 
ances of such a dwelling must already have actively begun. 

“ Here you may take in the Dutch courage, Clifford, should 
you lack the native. This, I know, is not the case with you, 
and yet the novelty of one’s situation frequently overcomes a 
sensitive mind like fear. Perhaps a julep may be of use.” 

“None for me. I need no farther stimulant than the 
mere sense of mouvement. I take fire, like a wheel, by my 
own progress.” 

“ Pretty much the same case with myself. But I have been 
in the habit of drinking here, of late, and too deeply. To-night, 
however, as I said before, ends all these habits. If there is 
honey in the carcass, and strength from the sleep, there is wisdom 
from the folly, and virtue from the vice. There is a moral as 
well as a physical recoil, that most certainly follows the over- 
charge ; and really, speaking according to my sincere conviction. 


MORALS OF ENTERPRISE. 


209 


I never felt myself to be a better man, than just at tins moment 
when I am about to do that which my own sense of morality 
fails altogether to justify. I do not know that I make you un- 
derstand my feelings ; I scarcely understand them myself ; but 
of this sort they are, and I am really persuaded that I never 
felt in a better disposition to be a good man and a working 
man than just at the close of a career which has been equally 
profligate and idle.” 

I think my companion can be understood. There seems, in 
fact very little mystery in his moral progress. I understood 
him, but did not answer. I was not anxious to keep up the ball 
of conversation which he had begun with a spirit so mixed up 
cf contradictions — so earnest yet so playful. A deep sense of 
shame unquestionably lurked beneath his levity ; and yet I 
make nc question that he felt in truth, and for the first time, 
that degree of mental hardihood of which he boasted. 

He advanced through the refreshment-room, to a door which 
led to an apartment in an adjoining tenement.. It was closed, 
but unfastened. The sound of voices, an occasional buzz, or a 
slight murmur, came to our ears from within ; that of rattling 
dice and rolling balls was more regular and more intelligible. 
Kingsley laid his hand upon the latch, and looked round to me. 
His eye was kindled with a. playful sort of malicious light. A 
smile of pleasant bitterness was on his lips. He said to me in 
a whisper : — 

“ Stake your money slowly. A Mexican is. the lowest stake. 
Keep to that, and lose as little as possible. You will soon see 
me sufficiently busy, and I will endeavor to urge my labors 
forward, so as to make your purgatory a short one. I shall only 
wait till I feel myself cheated in the game, to begin that which 
I came for. See that I have fair play in ihaU mon ami, and I 
care very little about the other.” 

He lifted the latch as he conclude 1, and I followed him into 
the apartment. 


210 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE HELL. 

The scene that opened upon us was, to me, a painfully . 
esting one. It was a mere hell, without any of those attra^w \ .. 
adjuncts which, in a diseased state of popular refinement, suca 
as exists in the fashionable atmospheres of London and Pans, 
provides it with decorations, and conceals its more discouraging 
and offensive externals. The charms rf music, lovely women, 
gay lights, and superb drapery and furniture, were here entirely 
wanting. No other arts beyond the single passion for hazard, 
which exists, I am inclined to think, in a greater or less degree 
in every human breast, were here employed to beguile the young 
and unsuspecting mind into indulgence. The establishment into 
which I had fallen, seemed to presuppose an acquaintance, al- 
ready formed, of the gamester with his fascinating vice. It 
was evidently no place to seduce the uninitiate. The passion 
must have been already awakened — the guardianship of the 
good angel lulled into indifference or slumber — before the young 
mind could be soon reconciled to the moral atmosphere of such 
a scene. 

The apartment was low and dimly lighted. Groups of small 
tables intended for two persons were all around. In the centre 
of the floor were tables of larger size, which were surrounded 
by the followers of Pharo. Unoccupied tables, here and there, 
were sprinkled with cards and domino ; while, as if to render 
the characteristics of the place complete, a vapor of smoke 
and a smell of beer assailed our senses as we entered. 

There were not many persons present — I conjectured, at a 
glance, that there might be fifteen ; but we heard occasional 
voices from an inner room, and a small- door opening in the rear 
discovered a retreat like that we oecupied, in the dim light of 


THE HELL. 


211 


which I peiceived moving faces and shadows, and Kingsley in- 
formed roe that there were several rooms all similarly occupied 
with ours. 

An examination of the persons around me, increased the un^ 
jdeasant feelings which the place had inspired. With the excep- 
tion Cl a few, the greater number were evidently superior to 
their employments. Several of them were young men like my 
comcairoxi — men not yet lost to sensibility , who looked up with 
some annoyance as they beheld Kingsley accompanied by a 
st ranger. Two or three of the inmates were veteran gamesters, 
^'ou could see that in their business-like nonchalance — their 
rigid muscles — the manner at once demure and familiar. They 
were evidently habitues deVenfer " — men to whom cards and 
dice were as absolutely necessary now, as brandy and tobacco 
CO the drunkard. These men were always at play. Even the 
smallest interval found them still shuffling the cards, and look- 
ing up at every opening of the door, as if in hungering antici- 
pation of the prey. At such periods alone might you behold 
any expression of anxiety in their faces. This disappeared en- 
tirely the moment that they were in possession of the victim. 
That imperturbable composure which distinguished them was 
singularly contrasted with the fidgety eagerness and nervous 
rapidity by which you could discover the latter ; and I glanced 
over the operations of the two parties, as they were fairly 
shown in several sets about the room, with a renewed feeling of 
wonder how a man so truly clever and strong, in some things, 
as Kingsley, should allow himself to be drawn so deeply into 
such low snares ; the tricks of which seemed so apparent, and 
the attractions of which, in the present instance, were obviously 
so inferior and low. I little knew by what inoffensive and 
gradual changes the human mind, having once commenced its 
downward progress, can hurry to the base ; nor did I sufficiently 
allow for that love of hazard itself, in games of chance, which 
I have already expressed the opinion, is natural to the proper 
heart of man, belongs to a rational curiosity, and arises, most 
probably, from that highest property of his intellect, namely, 
the love of art and intellectual ingenuity. It would be very 
important to know this fact, since then, instead of the blind 
hostility which is entert'ained for sports of this description, by 


212 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


certain classes of moralists among us, we might so emp’oy 
ministry as to deprive them of their hurtfulness and mekc th:*-.^ 
permanently beneficial in the cause of good education. 

Kingsley seemed to conjecture my thoughts. A smile of 
lofty significance expressing a feeling of mixed scorn a’j.’d 
humility, rose upon his countenance — as if admitting Lis own 
feebleness, while insisting upon his recovered strength A 
sentence which he uttered to me in a whisper, at this mcnie: t, 
was intended to convey some such meaning. 

“ It was only when thrown to the earth, Clifford, that tlic 
wrestler recovered his strength.” 

“That fable,” I replied, “proves that he was no god, f'i 
least. Of the earth, earthy, he found strength only in Iv 
sphere. The moment he aspired above it the god crushed him 
I doubt if Hercules could have derived any benefit from tl’ 
same source.” 

“Ah ! I am no Hercules, but you will also find that I am no 
Antaeus. I fall, but I rise again, and I am not crushed. This 
is peculiarly the source of human strength.” 

“ Better not to fall.” 

“ Ah ! you are too late from Utopia. But — ” 

We were interrupted; a voice at my elbow — a soft, clear, 
insinuating voice addressed my companion : — 

“ Ah, Monsieur Kingsley, I rejoice to see you.” 

Kingsley gave me a single look, which said everything, as 
he turned to meet the new-comer. The latter continued : — 

“ Though worsted in that last encounter, you do not despair, 
I see.” 

“ No ! why should I ?” 

“ Tnie, why ? Fortune baffles skill, but what of that ? She 
is capricious. Her despotism is feminine ; and in her empire, 
more certainly than any other, it may be said boldly, that, 
with change of day there is change of doom. It is not always 
rain.” 

“ Perhaps not, but we may have such a long spell of it that 
everything is drowned. ‘ It’s a long lane,’ says the proverb, 
‘that has no turn;’ but a man be done up long before he gets 
to the turning place.” 

The other replied by some of the usual commonplaces by 


THE HELL. 


213 


which, in condescending language, the gamester provokes and 
stimulates his unconscious victim. Kingsley, however, had 
reached a period of experience which enabled him to estimate 
these phrases at their proper worth. 

“ You would encourage me,” he said quietly, and in tones 
which, to the unnoteful ear, would have seemed natural enough, 
hut which, knowing him as I did, were slightly sarcastic, and 
containing a deeper signification than they gave out : “ but you 
are the better player. I am now convinced of that. Some- 
thing there is in fortune, doubtless ; my self-esteem makes me 
willing to admit that ; and yet I do not deceive myself. You 
have been too much for me — you are !” 

“ The difference is trifling, very trifling, I suspect. A little 
more practice will soon reconcile that.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! you forget the practice is to he paid for.” 

“ True, hut it is the base spirit only that scruples at the cost 
of its accomplishments.” 

“ Surely, surely !” 

“You are fresh for the encounter to-night]” 

“ Pleasantly put ! Is the query meant for the player or his 
purse ]” 

“ Good, very good ! Why, truly, there is no necessary affinity 
between them.” 

“ And yet the one without the other would scarcely be able 
to commend himself to so excellent an artist as Mr. Latour 
Cleveland. Clifford, let me introduce you to my enemy ; Mr. 
Cleveland, my friend'^ 

In this manner was I introduced. Thus was I made ac- 
quainted with the particular individual whom it was the medi- 
tated purpose of Kingsley to expose. But, though thus marked 
in the language of his introduction, there was nothing in the 
tone or manner of my companion, at all calculated to alarm the 
suspicions of the other. On the contrary, there was a sort of 
reckless joviality in the air of abandon^ with which he presented 
me and spoke. A natural curiosity moved me to examine 
Cleveland more closely. He was what we should call, in com- 
mon speech, a very elegant young man. He was probably 
thirty or thirty-five years of age, tall, graceful, rather slender- 
ish, and of particular nicety in his dress. All his clothes were 


214 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


disposed with the happiest precision. White kid-gloves covered 
his taper fingers. Withdrawn, a rich diamond blazed upon one 
hand, while a seal-ring, of official dimensions, with characters 
cut in lava, decorated the other. His movements betrayed the 
same nice method which distinguished the arrangement of his 
dress. His evolutions might all have been performed by trum- 
pet signal, and to the sound of measured music. He was evi- 
dently one of t rose peroons whose feelings are too little earnest, 
ever to affect their policy ; too little warm ever to disparage 
the rigor of their customary play ; one of those cold, nice men, 
who, without having a single passion at work to produce one 
condition of feeling higher than another, are yet the very ideals 
of the most narrow and concentrated selfishness. His face was 
thin, pale, and intelligent. His lips were thick, however — the 
eyes bright, like those of a snake, but side-looking, never direct, 
never upward, and always with a smiling shyness in their glance, 
in which a suspicious mind like my own would always find suf- 
ficient occasion for distrust. 

Mr. Cleveland bestowed a single keen glance upon me while 
going through the ordeal of introduction. But his scrutiny 
labored under one disadvantage. His eyes did not encounter 
mine ! One loses a great deal, if his object be the study of 
human nature, if he fails in this respect. 

Much pleasure in making your acquaintance, Mr. Clifford ; 
trust, however, you will find me no worse enemy than your 
friend has done.” 

“ If he find you no worse, he will find himself no better. 
He will pay for his enmity, whatever its degree, as I have done, 
and be wiser, by reason of his losses.” 

“ Ah ! you think too much of your ill fortunes. That is bad. 
It takes from your confidence and so enfeebles your skill. You 
should think of it less seriously. Another cast, and the tables 
change. You will have your revenge.” 

“ I will ! ” said Kingsley with some emphasis, and a gravity 
which the other did not see. He evidently heard the words 
only as he had been accustomed to hear them — from the lips 
of young gamesters who perpetually delude themselves with 
hopes based upon insane expectations. A benignant smile 
mantled the cheeks of the gamester. 


THE HELL. 


215 


“ Ah, well ! I am ready ; but if you think me too much for 
you — ” 

He paused. The taunt was deliberately intended. It was 
the customary taunt of the gamester. On the minds of half 
the number of young men, it would have had the desired effect 
— of goading vanity, and provoking the self-esteem of the con- 
ceited boy into a sort of desperation, when the powers of sense 
and caution become mostly suspended, and no unnecessary 
suspicion or watchfulness then interferes to increase the diffi- 
culty of plucking the pigeon. I read the smile on Kingsley’s 
lip. It was brief, momentary, pleasantly contemptuous. Then, 
suddenly, as if he had newly recollected his policy, his counte- 
nance assumed a new expression — one more natural to the 
youth who has been depressed by losses, vexed at defeat, but 
flatters himself that the atonement is at hand. Perhaps, some- 
thing of the latent purpose of his mind increased the intense 
bitterness in the manner and tones of my companion. 

“ Too much for me, Mr. Cleveland ! No, no ! You are wil- 
ling, I see, to rob good fortune of some of her dues. You crow 
too soon. I have a shrewd presentiment that I shall be quite 
too much for you to-night.” 

A pleasant and well-satisfied smile of Cleveland answered 
the speaker. 

“ I like that,” said he ; “ it proves two things, both of which 
please me. Your trifling losses have not hurt your fortunes, 
nor the adverse run of luck made you despond of better suc- 
cess hereafter. It is something of a guaranty in favor of one’s 
performance that he is sure of himself. In such case he is 
equally sure of his opponent.” 

“ Look to it, then, for I have just that sort of self-guaranty 
which makes me sure of mine. I shall play deeply, that I may 
make the most of my presentiments. Nay, to show you how 
confident I am, this night restores me all that I have lost, or 
leaves me nothing more to lose.” 

The eyes of the other brightened. 

“ That is said like a man. I thank you for your warning. 
Shall we begin ?” 

“ Keady, ay, ready !” was the response of Kingsley, as ho 
turned to one of the tables. Quietly laying down upon it tho 


216 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


short, heavy stick which he earned, he threw off his gloves, and 
rubbed his hands earnestly together, laughing the while without 
restraint, as if possessed suddenly of some very pleasant and 
ludicrous fancy. 

“ They laugh who win,” remarked Cleveland, with something 
of coldness in his manner. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” was the only answer of Kingsley to this 
remark. The other continued — and I now clearly perceived 
that his purpose was provocation : — 

*‘It is certainly a pleasure to win your money, Kingsley — 
you hear it with so much philosophy. Nay, it seems to give 
~you pleasure, and thus lessens the pain I should otherwise feel 
in receiving the fruits of my superiority.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” again repeated Kingsley. “Excuse me, 
Mr. Cleveland. I am reminded of your remark, ‘ They laugh 
who win." I am laughing, as it were, anticipatively. I am so 
certain that I shall have my revenge to-night.” 

Cleveland looked at him for a moment with some curiosity, 
then called : — 

“ Philip!’" 

He was answered by a young mulatto — a tall, good-looking 
fellow, who approached with a mixed air of equal deference 
and self-esteem, plaited frills to a most immaculately white 
shirt-collar, a huge bulbous breastpin in his bosom, chains and 
seals, and all the usual equipments of Broadway dandyism. 
The fellow approached us with a smile ; his eyes looking alter- 
nately to Cleveland and Kingsley, and, as I fancied, with no 
unequivocal sneer in their expression, as they settled on the 
latter. A significance of another kind appeared in the look of 
Cleveland as he addressed him. 

“Get us the pictures, Philip — the latest cuts — and bring — 
ay, you may bring the ivories.” 

In a few moments, the preliminaries being despatched, the 
two were seated at a table, and a couple of packs of cards were 
laid beside them. Kingsley drew my attention to the cards. 
They were of a kind that my experience had never permitted 
me to see before. In place of ordinary kings and queens and 
knaves, these figures were represented in attitudes and costumes 
the most indecent — such as the prolific genius of Parisian 


THE HELL. 


217 


bawdry alone could conceive and delineate. It seems to be a 
general opinion among rogues that knavery is never wholly 
triumphant unless the mind is thoroughly degraded; and for 
this reason it is, perhaps, that establishments devoted to purposes 
like the present, have, in most countries, for their invariable 
adjuncts, the brothel and the bar-room. If they are not in the 
immediate tenement, they are sufficiently nigh to make the 
work of moral prostitution comparatively easy, in all its ramifi- 
cations, with the young and inconsiderate mind. Kingsley 
turned over the cards, and I could see that while affecting to 
show me the pictures he was himself subjecting the cards to a 
close inspection of another kind. This object was scarcely per- 
ceptible to myself, who knew his suspicions, and could naturally 
conjecture his policy. It did not excite the alarm of his antagonist. 

The parties sat confronting each other. Kingsley drew forth 
a wallet, somewhat ostentatiously, which he laid down beside 
him. The sight of his wallet staggered me. By its bulk I 
should judge it to have held thousands ; yet he had assured me 
that he had nothing beside, the one hundred dollars which he had 
procured from me. My surprise increased as I saw him open 
the wallet, and draw from one of its pockets the identical roll 
which I had put into his hands. The bulk of the pocket-book 
seeemed scarcely to be diminished. My suspicions were begin- 
ning to be roused. I began to think that he had told me a false- 
hood ; but he looked up at this instant, and a bright manly 
smile on his deep purposeful countenance, reassured me. I felt 
that there was some policy in the business which was not for 
me then to fathom. The cards were cut. A box of dice was 
also in the hands of Cleveland. 

“ Spots or pictures V said Cleveland. 

“ Pictures first, I suppose,” said Kingsley, “ till the blood 
gets up. The ivories then as the most rapid. But these pic- 
tures are really so tempting. A new supply, Philip !” 

“ Just received, sir,” said the other. 

“ And how shall we begin 1” demanded Cleveland, drawing 
a handful of bills, gold, and silver, from his pocket ; “ yellow, 
white, or brown ?” 

It was thus, I perceived, that gold, silver, and paper money, 
were described. 

XO 


218 co:^ESsiON, or the blind heart. 

“ Shall it be child’s play, or — *’ 

“Man’s, man’s!” replied Kingsley, with some impatience. 
“ I am for beginning with a cool hundred,” and, to my con- 
sternation, he unfolded the roll he had of me, counted out the 
bills, refolded them and placed them in a saucer, where they 
were soon covered with a like sum by his antagonist. I was 
absolutely sickened, and stared aghast upon my reckless com- 
panion. He looked at me with a smile. 

“ To your own game, Clifford. You will find men enough for 
your money in either of the rooms. Should you run short, 
come to me.” 

Thus confidently did he speak ; yet he had actually but the 
single hundred which he had so boldly staked on the first issue. 
I thought him lost ; but he better knew his game than I. He 
also knew his man. The eyes of Cleveland were on the huge 
wallet in reserve, of which the “cool hundred” might naturally 
be considered a mere sample. I had not courage to wait for 
the result, but wandered off, with a feeling not unallied to terror, 
into an adjoining apartment. 


DIC^ 


219 


CHAPTER XXX. 

FALSE DICE. 

Though confounded -with what I had seen of the proceedings 
of Kingsley, I was yet willing to promote, so far as I could, 
the purpose for which we came. I felt too, that, unless I 
played, that purpose, or my own, might reasonably incur sus- 
picion. To rove through the several rooms of a gambling- 
house, surveying closely the proceedings of others, without 
partaking, in however slight a degree, in the common business 
of the establishment, was neither good policy nor good manners. 
Unless there to play, what business had I there? Accordingly 
I resolved to play. But of these games I knew nothing. It 
was necessary to choose among them, and, without a choice I 
turned to one of the tables where the genius of Roulette pre- 
sided. A motley group, none of whom I knew, surrounded it. 
I placed my dollar upon one of the spots, red or black, I know 
not which, and saw it, in a moment after, spooned up with 
twenty others by the banker. I preferred this form of play to 
any other, for the simple reason that it did not task my own 
faculties, and left me free to bestow my glances on the proceed- 
ings of my friend. But I soon discovered that the contagion 
of play is irreeistible ; and so far from putting my stake down 
at intervals, and with philosophic indifference, I found myself, 
after a little while, breathlessly eager in the results. These, 
after the first few turns of the machine, had ceased to be un- 
favorable. I was confounded to discover myself winning. In- 
stead of one I put down two Mexicans. 

“ Put down ten,” said one of the bystanders, a dark, sulky- 
looking little yellow man, who seemed a veteran at these places. 
“You are in luck — make the most of it.” 

The master of the ceremonies scowled upon the speaker ; and 


220 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


this determined me to obey his suggestions. I did so, and 
doubled the money ; left my original stake and the winnings on 
the same spot, and doubled that also ; and it was not long before, 
under this stimulus of success, and the novelty of my situation, 
I found myself as thoroughly anxious and intensely interested, 
as if I had gone to the place in compliance with a natural pas- 
sion. I know not how long I had continued in this way, but 1 
was still fortunate. I had doubled my stakes repeatedly, and 
my pockets were crammed with money. 

“ Stop now, if you are wise,” whispered the same sulky -looking 
little man who had before urged me to go on more boldly, as he 
sidled along by me for this object; “never ride a good horse to 
death. There’s a time to stop just as there’s a time to push. 
You had better stop now. Stake another dollar and you lose 
all your winnings.” 

“ Let the gentleman play his own game, BrinckofiP. I don’t 
see why you come here to spoil sport.” 

Such was the remark of the keeper of the table. He had 
overheard my counsellor. He felt his losses, and was angry. I 
saw that, and it determined me. I took the counsel of the 
stranger. I was the more willing to do so, as I reproached my- 
self for my inattention to my friend. It was time to see what 
had been his progress, and I prepared to leave the theatre of 
my own success. Before doing so, I turned to my counsellor, 
and thus addressed him : “ Your advice has made me win ; I 
trust I will not offend a gentleman who has been so courteous, 
by requesting him to take my place upon a small capital.” 

I put twenty pieces into his hand. 

“ I am but a young beginner,” I continued, “ and I owe you 
for my first lesson.” 

“ You are too good,” he said, but his hand closed over the 
dollars. The keeper of the table renewed his murmurs of dis- 
content as he saw me turn away. 

“ Ah ! bah ! Petit, what’s the use to grumble ?” demanded my 
representative. “ Do you suppose I will give up my sport for 
yours ? When would I get a sixpence to stake, if it were not 
that I was kind to young fellows just beginning? There; growl 
jjo more ; the twenty Mexicans upon the red !” 

The next minute my gratuity was swallowed up in the great 


FALSE DICE. 


221 


sjjoon of the banker. I m as near enough to see the result. I 
flaced another ten pieces in the hand of the unsuccessful 
gambler. 

“Very good,” said he; “very much obliged to you; but. if 
you please, I will do no more to-night. It^s not my lucky night. 
IVe lost every set.” 

“As you please — when you please!” 

“ You are a gentleman,” he said ; “ the sooner you go home 
the better. A young beginner seldom wins in the small hours.” 

This was said in another whisper. I thanked him for his 
further suggestion, and turned away, leaving him to a side 
squabble with the banker, who finally concluded by telling him 
that he never wished to see him at his table. 

“ The more fool you. Petit,” said Brinckoff ; “ for the youngster 
that wins comes back, and he does not always win. You finish 
him in the end as you finished me, and what more would you 
have ?” 

The rest, and there was much more, was inaudible to me. I 
hurried from the place somewhat ashamed of my success. I 
doubt whether I should have had the like feelings had I lost, 
As it was, never did possession seem more cumbrous than the 
mixed gold, paper, and silver, with which my pockets were bur- 
dened. I gladly thought of Kingsley, to avoid thinking of my- 
self. It was certain, I fancied, that he had not lost, else how 
could he have continued to play 1 My anxiety hurried me into 
the room where I had left him. 

They sat together, he and Cleveland, as before. I observed 
that there was now an expression of anxiety — not intense, but 
obvious enough — upon the countenance of the latter. Philip, 
too, the mulatto, stood on one side, contemplating the proceed- 
ings with an air of grave doubt and uncertainty in his counte- 
nance. No such expression distinguished the face of Kingsley. 
Never did a light-hearted, indifferent, almost mocking spirit, 
shine out more clearly from any human visage. At times he 
chuckled as with inward satisfaction. Not unfrequently he 
laughed aloud, and his reckless “ Ha ! ha ! ha !” had more than 
once reached and startled me in the midst of my own play, in 
the adjoining room. The opponents had discarded their “ pic- 
tures.” They were absolutely rolling dice for their stakes. I 


222 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

saw that the wallet of Kingsley lay untouched, and quite as 
full as ever, in the spot where he had first laid it down. A pile 
of money lay open beside him ; the gold and silver pieces keep^ 
ing down the paper. When he saw me approach, he laughed 
aloud, as he cried out : — 

“ Have they disburdened you, Clifford ? Help yourself. I 
am punishing my enemy famously. I can spare it.” 

A green, sickly smile mantled the lips of Cleveland. He re- 
plied in low, soft tones, such as I could only partly hear ; and, 
a moment after, he swept the stake before the two, to his own 
side of the table. The amount was large, but the features of 
Kingsley remained unaltered, while his laugh was renewed as 
heartily as if he really found pleasure in the loss. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! that is encouraging ; but the end is not yet. 
The tug is yet to come !” 

I now perceived that Kingsley took up his wallet with one 
hand while he spread his handkerchief on his lap with the 
other. Into this he drew the pile of money which he had loose 
before on his side of the table, and appeared to busy himself in 
counting into it the contents of the wallet. This he did with 
such adroitness, that, though I felt assured he had restored the 
wallet to his bosom with its bulk undiminished, yet I am equal- 
ly certain that no such conclusion could have been reached by 
any other person. This done, he lifted the handkerchief, full 
as it was, and dashed it down upon the table. 

“ There ! cover that, if you be a man !” was his speech of 
defiance. 

“ How much ?” huskily demanded Cleveland. 

“All!” 

“ Ah!” 

“ Yes, all. I know not the number of dollars, cents, or six- 
pences, but face it with your winnings : there need be no count- 
ing. It is loss of time. Stir the stufp with your fingers, and 
you will find it as good, and as much, as you have here to put 
against it. On that hangs my fate or yours. Mine for certain ! 
I tell you, Mr. Cleveland, it is all !” 

Cleveland lifted the ends of the handkerchief, as if weighing 
its contents ; and then, without more scruple, flung into it a pile 
not unlike it in bulk and quality : a handful of mixed gold 


FALSE DICE. 

paper, and silver. Kingsley grasped the dice before him, and 
with a single shake dashed them out upon the table. 

“ Six, four, two,” cried Philip with a degree of excitement 
which did not appear in either of the active opponents. Mean 
while my heart was in my mouth. I looked on Kingsley with 
a sentiment of wonder. Every muscle of his face was com- 
posed into the most quiet indifference. He saw my glance, and 
smilingly exclaimed : — 

“I trust to my star, Clifford. Sans Souci — remember!” 

No time was allowed for more. The moment was a breath 
less one. Cleveland had taken up the dice. His manner was 
that of the most singular deliberation. His eyes were cast down 
upon the table. His lips strongly closed together ; and now it 
was that I could see the keen, piercing look which Kingsley ad- 
dressed to every movement of the gambler. I watched him 
also. He did not immediately throw the dice, and I was con- 
scious of some motion which he made with his hands before he 
did so. What that motion was, however, I could neither have 
said nor conceived. But I saw a grim smile, full of intelligence, 
suddenly pass over Kingsley’s lips. The dice descended upon 
the table with a sound that absolutely made me tremble. 

“ Five, four, six !” cried Philip, loudly, with tones of evident 
exultation. I felt a sense like that of suffocation, which was 
unrelieved even by the seemingly unnatural laughter of my 
companion. He did laugh, but in a manner to render less 
strange and unnatural that in which he had before indulged. 
Even as he laughed he rose and possessed himself of the dice 
which the other had thrown down. 

“ The stakes are mine,” cried Cleveland, extending his hand 
toward the handkerchief. 

“ No 1” said Kingsley, with a voice of thunder, and as he 
spoke, he handed me the kerchief of money, which I grasped 
instantly, and thrust with some difficulty into my bosom. This 
was done instinctively ; I really had no thoughts of what I was 
doing. Had I thought at all I should most probably have re- 
fused to receive it. 

“How!” exclaimed Cleveland, his face becoming suddenly 
pale. “ The cast is mine — fifteen to twelve !” 

“ Ay, scoundrel, but the game I played for is mine ! As for 


224 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the cast, you shall try another which you shall relish less. Do 
you see these V* 

He showed the dice which he had gathered from the table. 
The gambler made an effort to snatch them from his hands. 

“ Try that again,” said Kingsley, “ and I lay this hickory 
over your pate, in a way that shall be a warning to it for ever.” 

By this time several persons from the neighboring tables and 
the adjoining rooms, hearing the language of strife, came rush- 
ing in. Kingsley beheld their approach without concern. There 
were several old gamblers among them, but the greater number 
were young ones. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Kingsley, “ I am very glad to see you. 
You come at a good time. I am about to expose a scoundrel to 
you.” 

“ You shall answer for this, sir,” stammered Cleveland, in 
equal rage and confusion. 

“ Answer, shall I ? By Jupiter! but you shall answer too ! 
And you shall have the privilege of a first answer, shall you?” 

“ Mr. Kingsley, what is the meaning of this ?” was the de- 
mand of a tall, dark-featured man, who now made his appear- 
ance from an inner room, and whom I now learned, was, in fact, 
the proprietor of the establishment. 

“ Ah I Eadcliffe — but before another word is wasted put your 
fingers into the left breeches pocket of that scoundrel there, 
and see what you will find.” 

Cleveland would have resisted. Kingsley spoke again to 
Eadcliffe, and this time in stern language, which was evidently 
felt by the person to whom it was addressed. 

” Eadcliffe, your own credit — nay, safety — will depend upon 
your showing that you have no share in this rogue’s practice. 
Search him, if you would not share his punishment.” 

The fellow was awed, and obeyed instantly. Himself, with 
three others, grappled with the culprit. He resisted strenuous- 
ly, but in vain. He was searched, and from the pocket in 
question three dice were produced. 

“Very good,” said Kingsley; “now examine those dice, 
gentlemen, and see if you can detect one of my initials, the let- 
ter ‘ K,’ which I scratched with a pin upon each of them.” 

The examination was made, and the letter was found, very 


FALSE DICE. 225 

small and very faint, it is true, but still legible, upon the ace 
square of each of the dice. 

“Very good,” continued Kingsley; “and now, gentlemen, 
with your leave — ” 

He opened his hand and displayed the three dice with which 
Cleveland had last thrown. 

“ Here you see the dice with which this worthy gentleman 
hoped to empty my pockets. These are they which he last 
threw upon the table. He counted handsomely by them ! I 
threw, just before him, with those which you have in your hand. 
I had contrived to mark them previously, this very evening, in 
order that I might know them again. Why should he put 
them in his pocket, and throw with these ? As this question is 
something important, I propose to answer it to your satisfaction 
as well as my own ; and, for this reason, I came here, as you 
see, prepared to make discoveries.” 

He drew from his pocket, while he spoke, a small saddler’s 
hammer and steel-awl. Fixing with the sharp point of the awl 
in the ace spot of the dice, he struck it a single but sudden 
blow with the hammer, split each of the dice in turn, and dis- 
closed to the wondering, or seemingly wondering, eyes of all 
around, a little globe of lead in each, inclining to the lowest 
numeral, and necessarily determining the roll of the dice so as 
to leave the lightest section uppermost. 

“ Here, gentlemen,’’ continued Kingsley, “ you see by what 
process I have lost my money. But it is not in the dice alone. 
Look at these cards. Do you note this trace of the finger-nail, 
here, and there, and there — scarcely to be seen unless it is 
shown to you, but clear enough to the person that made it, and 
is prepared to look for it. Radclifife, your fellow, Philip, has 
been concerned in this business. You must dismiss him, or 
your visiters will dismiss you. Neither myself nor my friends 
will visit you again — nay, more, I denounce you to the police. 
Am I understood?” 

Badcliffe assented without scruple, evidently not so anxious 
for justice as for the safety of his establishment. But it ap- 
peared that there were others in the room not so well pleased 
with the result. A hubbub now took place, in which three or 
^ur fellows made a rush upon Kingsley — Cleveland urging 

10 * 


226 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


and clamoring from the rear, though without betraying much 
real desire to get into the conflict. 

But the assailants had miscalculated their forces. The 
youngsters in the establishment, regarding Kingsley’s develop- 
ment as serving the common cause, were as soon at his side as 
myself. The scufile was over in an instant. One burly ruffian 
was prostrated by a blow from Kingsley’s club ; I had my share 
in the prostration of a second, and some two others took to their 
heels, assisted in their progress by a smart application from 
every foot and fist that happened to be convenient enough for 
such a service. 

Bnt Cleveland alone remained. Why he had not shared the 
summary fate of the rest it would be difficult to say, unless it 
was because he had kept aloof from the active struggle to which 
he had egged them on. Perhaps, too, a better reason — he was 
reserved for some more distinguishing punishment. Why he 
had shown no disposition for flight himself, was answered as 
soon as Kingsley laid down his club, which he did with a laugh 
of exemplary good-nature the moment he had felled with it his 
first assailant. The flight of his allies left the path open be- 
tween himself and Cleveland, and, suddenly darting upon him, 
the desperate gambler aimed a blow at his breast with a dirk 
which he had drawn that instant from his own. He exclaimed 
as he struck : — 

“ Here is something that escaped your search. Take this ! 
this !” 

Kingsley was just lifting up the cap, which he had worn that 
night, from the table to his brows. Instinctively he dashed it 
into the face of his assassin, and his simple evolution saved him. 
The next moment the fearless fellow had grappled with his en- 
emy, torn the weapon from his grasp, and, seizing him around 
the body as if he had been an infant, moved with him to an 
open window looking out upon a neighboring court. The victim 
struggled, yelled for succor, but before any of us could inter- 
pose, the resolute and powerful man in whose hold he wiitlied 
and struggled vainly, with the gripe of a master, had thrust him 
through the opening, his heels, in their upward evolutions, shat- 
tering a dozen of the panes as he disarpeared from sight below. 
We all concluded that he was killed. We were in an upper 


FALSE DICE. 


227 


chamber, which I estimated to be twenty or thirty feet from 
the ground. I was too much shocked for speech, and rushed to 
the window, expecting to behold the mangled and bloody corpse 
of the miserable criminal beneath. The laughter of Eadcliffe 
half reassured me. 

He will not suffer much hurt,” said he ; “ there is something 
to break his fall.” 

I looked down, and there the unhappy wretch was seen squat- 
ting and clinging to the slippery shingles of an old stable, unhurt, 
some twelve feet below us, unable to reascend, and very unwil- 
ling to adopt the only alternative which the case presented — 
that of descending softly upon the rank bed of stable-ordure 
which the provident care of the gardener had raised up on 
every hand, the reeking fumes of which were potent enough to 
expel us very soon from our place of watch at the window. 
Of the further course of the elegant culprit we took no heed. 
The ludicrousness of his predicament had the effect of turning 
the whole adventure into merriment among those who remained 
in the establishment ; and availing ourselves of the clamorous 
mirth of the parties^ we made our escape from the place with a 
feeling, on my part, of indescribable relief. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEAPT. 




CHAPTER XXXI. 

HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 

“ Well, we may breathe awhile,” said Kingsley, as we found 
ourselves once more in the pure air, and under the blue sky of 
midnight. “We have got through an ugly task with tolerable 
success. You stood by me like a man, Clifford. I need not 
tell you how much I thank you.” 

“ I heartily rejoice that you are through with it, Kingsley ; 
but I am not so sure that we can deliberately approve of every- 
thing that we may have been required by the circumstances of 
the case to do.” 

“What! you did not relish the playing? I respect your 
scruples, but it does not follow that it must become a habit. 
You played to enable a friend to get back from a knave what 
he lost as a fool, and to punish the knavery that he could not 
well hope to reform. I do not see, considering the amount o^ 
possible good which we have done, that the evil is wholly im 
excusable.” 

“ Perhaps not j but this heap of money which I have in my 
bosom — should you have taken it?” 

“ And why not ? Whose should it be, if not mine ?” 

“ You took with you but one hundred dollars. I should say 
you have more than a thousand here.” 

“ I trust I have,” said he coolly. “ What of tliat ? 1 won 

it fairly, and he played fairly, until the last moment when 
everything was at stake. His false dice were then called in — 
and would you liave me yield to his roguery what had been 
the fruits of a fair conflict ? No ! no I friend of mine ! no I no I 
all these things did I consider well before I took you with me 


HO^' -r.R GAME WAS PLAYED. 


229 


to-nighu I Lave been meditating this business for a week, from 
the moment when a friendly fellow hinted to me that I was the 
victim of knavery.” 

“ But that wallet of money, Kingsley ? You assured me that 
you were pennyless.” 

“Ah ! that wallet bedevilled Mr. Latour Cleveland, as it 
seems to have bedevilled you. There, by the starlight, look at 
the contents of this precious wallet, and see how much furt.hp.r 
your eyes can pierce into the mystery of my proceedings.* 

He handed me the wallet, which I opened. To my grea.. 
surprise, I found it stuffed with old shreds of newspaper, biU 
of rag, even cotton, but not a cent of money. 

“ There ! are you satisfied ? You shall have that wallet, 
with all its precious contents, as a keepsake from me. It will 
remind you of a strange scene. It will have a history for yot» 
when you are old, which you will tell with a chuckle to yom 
children.” 

“ Children !” I involuntarily murmured, while my voic* 
trembled, and a tear started to my eye. That one word recal- 
led me back, at once, to home, to my particular woes — to all 
that I could have wished banished for ever, even in the un- 
wholesome stews and steams of a gaming-house. But Kings- 
ley did not suffer me to muse over my own afflictions. He did 
not seem to hear the murmuring exclamation of my lips. He 
continued : — 

“ I have no mysteries from you, and you need, as well as de- 
serve, an explanation. All shall be made clear to you. The 
reason of this wallet, and another matter which staggered you 
quite as much — my audacious bet of a cool hundred — your 
own disconsolate hundred — as a first stake! I have no doubt 
you thought me mad when you heard me.” 

I confessed as much. He laughed. 

“ As I tell you, I had studied my game beforehand, even in 
its smallest details. By this time, I knew something of the 
play of most gamblers, and of Mr. Latour Cleveland, in partic- 
ular. These people do not risk themselves for trifles. They 
play fairly enough when the temptation is small. They cheat 
only when the issues are great. I am speaking now of game- 
sters on the big figure, not of the petty chapmen who pule over 


230 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIN3 HEART. 


their pennies and watch the exit of a Mexican, with tin feelingt 
of one who sees the last wave of a friend’s handkerchief going 
upon the high seas. My big wallet and my hundred -dollar bet 
were parts of the same system. The heavy stake at the begin- 
ning led to the inference that I had corresponding resources. 
My big wallet lying by me, conveniently and ostentatiously, 
confirmed this impression. The cunning gambler was willing 
that I should win awhile. His policy was to encourage me ; to 
persuade me on and on, by gradual stimulants, till all was at 
stake. Well ! I knew this. All was at stake finally, and I had 
then to call into requisition all the moral strength of which I 
was capable, so that eye and lip and temper should not fail me 
at those moments when I would need the address and agency 
of all. 

“ The task has been an irksome one ; the trial absolutely 
painful. But I should have been ashamed, once commencing 
the undertaking, not to have succeeded. He, too, was not im- 
pregnable. I found out his particular weakness. He was a 
vain man ; vain of his bearing, which he deemed aristocratic ^ 
his person, which he considered very fine. I played with these 
vanities. Failing to excite him on the subject of the game, I 
made himself my subject. I chattered with him freely ; so as 
to prompt him to fancy that I was praising his style, air, appear- 
ance ; anon, by some queer jibe, making him half suspicious 
that I was quizzing him. My frequent laughter, judiciously 
disposed, helped this effect ; and, to a certain extent, I succeed- 
ed. He became nervous, and was excited, though you may not 
have seen it. I saw it in the change of his complexion, which 
became suddenly quite bilious. I found, too, that he could 
only speak with some effort, when, if you remember, before 
we began to play, his tongue, though deliberate, worked pai 
enough. I felt my power over him momently increase ; and I 
sometimes won where he did not wish it. I do verily believe 
that he ceased to see the very marks which he himself had 
made upon the cards. Nervous agitation, on most persons, pro- 
duces a degree of blindness quite as certainly as it affects the 
speech. Well, you saw the condition of our funds when you 
re-appeared. I had determined to bring the business to a close. 
T had marked the dice, actually before his face, while we took 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 


231 


a spell of rest over a bottle of porter. I had scratched them 
q^uietly with a pin which I carried in my sleeve for that pur- 
pose, while he busied himself with a fidgety shuffling of the 
cards. My leg, thrown over one angle of the table, partly cov- 
ered my operations, and I worked upon the dice in my lap. You 
may suppose the etching was bad enough, doing precious little 
credit to the art of engraving in our country. But the thing 
was thoroughly done, for I had worked myself into a rigorous* 
sort of philosophic desperation which made me as cool as a cu- 
cumber. To seem to empty the contents of the wallet into my 
lap was my next object, and this I succeeded in, without his 
suspecting that my movement was a sham only. The purse 
thus made up, I emphatically told him was all I had — this was 
the truth — and then came the crisis. His trick was to be em- 
ployed now or never. It was employed, but he had become so 
nervous^ that I caught a sufficient glimpse of his proceedings. I 
saw the slight o’hand movement which he attempted, and — you 
know the rest. I regard the money as honestly mine — so far 
as good morals may recognise the honesty of getting money 
by gambling ; — and thinking so, my dear Clifford, I have no 
scruple in begging you to share it with me. It is only fit 
that you, who furnished all the capital — you see I say 
nothing of the wallet which should, however, be priceless 
in our eyes — should derive at least a moiety of the profit. 
It is quite as much yours as mine. I beg you so to con- 
sider it.” 

I need not say, however, that I positively refused to accept 
this offer. I would take nothing but the hundred which I had 
lent him, and placed the handkerchief with all its contents into 
his hands. 

“ And now, Clifford, I must leave you. You have yet to 
learn another of my secrets. I. take the rail-car at day- 
light in the morning. I am off for Alabama ; and con- 
sidering my Texan and Mexican projects, I leave you, perhaps, 
for ever.” 

“ So soon 1” 

“Yes, everything is ready. There need be no delay. I 
have no wife nor children to cumber me. My trunks are al- 
ready packed j my resolve made j my last business transacted 


232 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

I have some lands in Alabama which I mean to sell. This 
done, I am off for the great field of performance, south and 
southwest. You shall hear of me, perhaps may wish to heai 
from me. Here is my address, meanwhile, in Alabama. 
I shall advise you of my further progress, and shall esteem 
highly a friendly scrawl from you. If you write, do not fail to 
tell me what you may hear of Mr. Latour Cleveland, and how 
he got down from the muck-heap. Write me all about it, Clif- 
ford, and whatever else you can about our fools and knaves, 
for though I leave them without a tear, yet, d — n ’em, I keep 
’em in my memory, if it’s only for the sake of the old city whom 
they bedevil.” 

Enough of our dialogue that night. Kingsley was a fellow 
of every excellent and some very noble qualities. We did not 
sympathize in sundry respects, but I parted from him with re- 
gret; not altogether satisfied, however, that there were not 
some defects in that reasoning by which he justified our pro- 
ceedings with the gamblers. I turned from him with a sad, 
sick heart. In his absence the whole feeling of my domestic 
doubts and difficulties rushed back upon me freshly and with 
redoubled force. 

“ Children !” I murmured mournfully, as I recalled one of 
his remarks ; “ children ! children ! these, indeed, were bles- 
sings ; but if we only had love, tmth, peace. If that damning 
doubt were not there ! — that wild fear, that fatal, soul-petrify- 
ing suspicion !” 

I groaned audibly as I traversed the streets, and it seemed 
as if the pavements groaned hollowly in answer beneath my hur- 
rying footsteps. In a moment more I had absolutely forgotten 
the recent strife, the strange scene, the accents of my friend ; 
all but that one. 

“ Children ! children ! These might bind her to me ; might 
secure her erring affections ; might win her to love the father, 
when he himself might possess no other power to tempt her to 
love. Ah ! why has Providence denied me the blessing of a 
child ?” 

Alas! it was not probable that Julia shoild ever have 
children. This was the conviction of our physician. Her 
health and constitution seemed to forbid the hope; and the 


HOW THE GAME WAS PLAYED. 


2B8 


gloomy despair under which I suffered was increased by this 
reflection. Yet, even at that moment, while thus I mused and 
murmured, my poor wife had been unexpectedly and prema- 
turely delivered of an infant son — a tiny creature, in whom 
life was but a passing gleam, as of the imperfect moonlight, 
and of whom death took possession in the very instant of its 
birth. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


2 ^ 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

BUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS. 

While Iliad been wasting tbe precious hours of midnight 
in a gaming-house, my poor Julia had undergone the peculiar 
pangs of a mother ! While I had been reproaching her in my 
secret soul for a want of ardency and attachment, she had been 
giving me the highest proof that she possessed the warmest. 
These revelations, however, were to reach me slowly ; and 
then, like those of Cassandra, they were destined to encounter 
disbelief. 

Leaving Kingsley, I turned into the street where my wife’s 
mother lived. But the house was shut up — the company gone. 
I had not been heedful of the progress of the hours. I looked 
up at the tall, white, and graceful steeple of our ancient church, 
which towered in serene majesty above us ; but, in the imper- 
fect light I failed to read the letters upon the dial-plate. At 
that moment its solemn chimes pealed forth the hour, as if 
especially in answer to my quest. How such sounds speak to 
tbe very soul at midnight! They seem the voice from Time 
himself, informing, not man alone, but Eternity, of his progress 
to that lone night, in which his minutes, hours, days, and years, 
are equally to be swallowed up and forgotten. 

Sweet had been those bells to me in boyhood. Sad were 
they to me now. I had heard them ring forth merry peals on 
the holydays of the nation ; and peals on the day of national 
mourning; startling and terrifying peals in the hour of mid- 
night danger and alarm; but never till then had they spoken 
with such deep and searching earnestness to the most hidden 
places of my soul. That ‘one, two, three, four,’ which they 


SUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS. 


236 


then stnick, as they severally pronounced the thrilling mono- 
tones, seemed to convey the burden of four impressive acts in 
a yet unfinished tragedy. My heart heat with a, feeling of 
anxiety, such as overcomes us, when we look for the curtain 
to rise which is to unfold the mysterious progress of the 
catastrophe. 

That fifth act of mine! what was it to be? Involuntarily 
my lips uttered the name of William Edgerton ! I started as 
if I had trodden upon a viper. The denouement of the drama 
at once grew up before my eyes. I felt the dagger in my 
grasp ; I actually drew it from my bosom. I saw the victim 
before me — a smile upon his lips — a fire in his glance — an 
ardor, an intelligence, that looked like exulting passion ; and my 
own eyes grew dim. I was blinded ; but, even in the dark- 
ness, I struck with fatal precision. I felt the resistance, I 
heard the groan and the falling body ; and my hair rose, with 
a cold, moist life of its own, upon my clammy and shrinking 
temples. 

I recovered from the delusion. My dagger had been piercing 
the empty air ; but the feeling and the horror in my soul were 
not less real because the deed had been one of fancy only. 
The foregone conclusion was in my mind, and I well knew that 
fate would yet bring the victim to the altar. 

I know not how I reached my dwelling, but when there I 
was soon brought to a sober condition of the senses. I found 
everything in commotion. Mrs. Delaney, late Clifford, was 
there, busy in my wife’s chamber, while her husband, surly with 
such an interruption to his domestic felicity, even at the thresh- 
old, was below, kicking his heels in solemn disquietude in the 
parlor. The servants had been despatched to bring her and to 
seek me, in the first moments of my wife’s danger. She had 
consciousness enough for that, and Mrs. Delaney had summoned 
the physician. He too — the excellent old man, who had as- 
sisted us in our clandestine marriage — he too was there; sad, 
troubled, and regarding me with looks of apprehension and 
rebuke which seemed to ask why I was abroad at that late 
hour, leaving my wife under such circumstances. I could not 
meet his glance with a manly eye. They brought nie the dead 
infant — poor atom of mortality — no longer mortal; but I 


236 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


turned away from the spectacle. I dared not look upon it. It 
was the form of a perished hope, ended in a dream ! And such 
a dream ! The physician gave me a brief explanation of the 
condition of things. 

“ Your wife is very ill. It is difficult to say what will hap- 
pen. Make up your mind for the worst. She has fever — has 
been delirious. But she sleeps now under the effect of some 
medicine 1 have given her. She will not sleep long ; and every- 
thing will depend upon her wakening. She must be kept very 
quiet.” 

I asked if he could conjecture what should bring about such 
an event. “ Though delicate, Julia was not out of health. She 
had been well during the evening when I left her.” 

“ You have left her long. This is a late hour, Mr. Clifford, 
for a young husband to be out. Nothing but matter of neces’ 
sity could excuse ” 

I interrupted him with some gravity ; — 

“Suppose then it was a matter of necessity — of seeming 
necessity, at least.” 

He observed my emotion. 

“ Do not be angry with me. I assisted your dear wife into 
the world, Clifford. I would not see her hurried out of it. She 
is like a child of my own ; I feel for her as such.” 

I said something apologetic, I know not what, and renewed 
my question. 

“ She has been alarmed or excited, perhaps ; possibly has 
fallen while ascending the stair. A very slight accident will 
sometimes suffice to produce such a result with a constitution 
such as hers. She needs great watchfulness, Clifford ; close 
attention, much solicitude. She needs and deserves it, Clif- 
ford.” 

I saw that the old man suspected me of indifference and 
neglect. Alas ! whatever might be my faults in reference to 
my wife, indifference was not among them. What he had said, 
however, smote me to the heart. I felt like a culprit. I dared 
not meet his eye when, at daylight, he took his departure, 
promising to return in a few hours. 

My excellent mother-in-law was more capable and copious in 
her details. From her I learned that Julia, though anxious to 


SUDDEN LESSON AND NEW SUSPICIONS. 287 


depart for some time before, had waited for my return until the 
last of her guests were about to retire. Among these happened 
to be Mr. William Edgerton !” 

“ He offered his carriage, but Julia put off accepting for a 
long time, saying you would soon return. But at last he press- 
ed her so, and seeing everybody else gone, she concluded to 
go, and Mr. Delaney helped her into the carriage, and Mr. 
Edgerton got in too, to see her home ; and off they drove, and 
it was not an hour after, when Becky (the servant-girl) came 
to rout us up, saying that her mistress was dying. I hurried 
on my clothes, and Delaney — dear good man — he was just 
as quick; and oft* we came, and sure enough, we found her in 
a bad way, and nobody with her but the servants ; and I sent 
off after you, and after the doctor ; and he just came in time 
to help her ; but she went, on wofully ; was very lightheaded ; 
talked a great deal about you ; and about Mr. Edgerton ; I 
suppose because he had just been seeing her home ; but didn’t 
seem to know and doesn’t know to this moment what has hap 
pened to her.” 

I have shortened very considerably the long story which 
Mrs. Delaney made of it. Rambling as it was — fiill of non- 
sense — with constant references to her “ dear good man,” and 
her party, the eompany, herself, her fashion, and frivolities — 
there was yet something to sting and trouble me at the core of 
her narration. Edgerton and my wife linger to the last — 
Edgerton rides home with her — he and she in the carriage, 
alone, at midnight ; — and then this catastrophe, which the 
doctor thought was a natural consequence of some excitement 
or alarm. 

These facts wrought like madness in my brain. Then, 
too, in her delirium she raves of him! Is not that signifi 
cant? True, it comes from the lips of that malicious old 
woman ! she, who had already hinted to me that my wife — 
her daughter — was likely to be as faithless to me as she 
had been to herself. Still, it is significant, even if it be 
only the invention of this old woman. It showed what she 
conjectured — what she thought to be a natural result of these 
practices which had prompted her suspicions as well as my 
own. 


238 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


How hot was the iron-pressure upon iny braiu — how keen 
and scorching w^as that fiery arrow in my soul, w’hcn I took 
my place of watch beside the unconscious form of my wife, 
God alone can know. If I am criminal — if I have erred with 
wildest error — surely I have struggled with deepest misery. 
I have been misled by wo, not temptation ! Sore has been my 
struggle, sore my suffering, even in the moment of my greatest 
fault and folly. Sore I — how sore ! 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


239 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

STILL THE CLOUD. 

For three days and nights did I watch beside the sick bed 
of ray wife. In all this time her fate continued doubtful. I 
doubt if any anxiety or attention could have exceeded mine ; 
as it was clear to myself that, in spite of jealousy and suspicion, 
my love for her remained without diminution. Yet this watch 
was not maintained without some trials far more severe and 
searching than those which it produced upon the body. Her 
mind, wandering and purposeless, yet spoke to mine, and re- 
newed all its racking doubts, and exaggerated all its nameless 
fears. Her veins burned with fever. She was fitfully delirious. 
Words fell from her at spasmodic moments — strange, incoherent 
words, but all full of meaning in my ears. I sat beside the bed 
on one hand, while, on one occasion, her mother occupied a 
seat upon that opposite. The eyes of my wife opened upon 
both of us — turned from me, convulsively, with an expression, 
as I thought, of disgust, then closed — while her lips, taking up 
their language, poured forth a torrent of threats and reproaches. 

I can not repeat her words. They rang in my ears, under- 
stood, indeed, but so wildly and thrillingly, that I should find 
it a vain task to endeavor to remember them. She spoke of 
persecution, annoyance, beyond propriety, beyond her powers 
of endurance. She threatened me — for I assumed myself to 
be the object of her denunciation — with the wrath of some one 
capable to punish — nay, to rescue her, if need be, by violence, 
from the clutches of her tyrant. Then followed another change 
in her course of speech. She no longer threatened or de- 
nounced. She derided. Words of bitter scorn and loathing 
contempt issued from those bright, red, burning, and always 


240 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


beautiful lips, which I had never supposed could have given 
forth such utterance, even if her spirit could have been sup- 
posed capable of conceiving it. Keen was the irony which she 
expressed — irony, which so well applied to my demerits in one 
great respect, that I could not help making the personal ap- 
plication. 

“How manly and generous,” she proceeded, “was this sort 
of persecution of one so unprotected, so dependent, so placed, 
that she must even be silent, and endure without speech or 
complaint, in the dread of dangers which, however, would not 
light upon her head. Oh, brave as generous !” she exclaimed, 
with a burst of tremendous delirium, terminating in a shriek ; 
“oh, brave as generous! — scarcely lion-like, however, for the 
noble beast rushes upon his victim. He does not prowl, and 
skulk, and sneak, watching, cat-like, crouching and base, in 
stealth and darkness. Very noble, but mousing spirit ! Be- 
ware ! Do I not know you now ! Fear you not that I will 
show your baseness, and declare the truth, and guide other 
eyes to your stealthy practice ? Beware ! Do not drive me 
into madness 1” 

Thus she raved. My conscience applied these stinging 
words of scorn, which seemed particularly fitted to the mean 
suspicious watch which I had kept upon her. I could have no 
thought that they were meant for any other ears than my own, 
and the crimson flush upon my cheeks was the involuntary ac- 
knowledgment which my soul made of the demerits of my un- 
manly conduct. I fancied that J ulia had detected my espionage, 
and that her language had this object in reference only. But 
there were other words ; and, passing with unexpected transi- 
tion from the language of dislike and scorn, she now indulged 
in that of love — language timidly suggestive of love, as if its 
utterance were restrained by bashfulness, as if it dreaded to be 
heard. Then a deep sigh followed, as if from the bottom of her 
heart, succeeded by convulsive sobs, at last ending in a gushing 
flood of tears. 

For the space of half an hour I had been an attentive but 
suffering listener to this wild raving. My pangs followed every 
sentence from her lips, believing, as I did, that they were rC' 
proachful of myself, and associated with a n'^w unrestrained 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


241 


expression of passion for another. Gradually I had ceased, in 
the deep interest which I felt, to be conscious that Mrs. Dela- 
ney was present. I leaned across the couch ; I bent my ear 
down toward the lips of the speaker, eager to drink up every 
feeble sound which might help to elucidate my doubts, and 
subdue or confirm my suspicions. Then, as the accumulating 
conviction forced itself, embodied and sharp, like a knife, into 
my soul, I groaned aloud, and my teeth were gnashed together 
in the bitterness of my emotion ! In that moment I caught 
the keen gray eyes of my mother-in-law fixed upon me, with a 
jibing expression, which spoke volumes of mockery. They 
seemed to say, “ Ah ! you have it now ! The truth is forced 
upon you at last ! You can parry it ’'O longer. I see the iron 
in your soul. I behold and enjoy your contortions !” 

Fiend language ! She was something of a fiend ! I started 
from the bedside, and just then a flood of tears came to the re- 
lief of my wife, and lessened the excitement of her brain. 
The tears relieved her. The paroxysip passed away. She 
turned her eyes upon me, and closed them involuntarily, while 
a deep crimson tint passed over her cheek, a blush, which 
seemed to me to confirm substantially the tenor of that lan- 
guage in which, while dehrious, she had so constantly indulged. 
It did not lessen the seeming shame and dislike which her 
countenance appeared at once to embody, that a soft sweet 
smile was upon her lips at the same moment, and she extended 
to me her hand with an air of confidence which staggered and 
surprised me. 

“ What is the matter, dear husband ? And you here, mother? 
Have I been sick ? Can it be V* 

“ Hush !” said the mother. “ You have been sick ever since 
the night of my marriage.” 

“Ah !” she exclaimed with an air of anxiety and pain, while 
pressing her hand upon her eyes, “ Ah ! that night !” 

A shudder shook her frame as she uttered this simple and 
short senten ' e. Simple and short as it was, it seemed to possess 
a strange signification. That it was associated in her mind 
with some circumstances of peculiar import, was sufficiently 
obvious. What were these circumstances ? Ah ! that ques- 
tion ! I ran over in my thought, in a single instant, all that 

U 


242 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART 

array of events, on that fatal night, which could, by any poc- 
sibility, distress me, and confirm my suspicions. I’hat waltz 
with Edgerton — that long conference between them — that 
lonely ride together from the home of Mrs. Delaney, in a close 
carriage — and the subsequent disaster — her unconscious rav- 
ings, and the strong, strange language which she employed, 
clearly full of meaning as it was, but in which I could discover 
one meaning only ! all these topics of doubt and agitation pas- 
sed througii my brain in consecutive order, and with a compact 
arrangement which seemed as conclusive as any final issue, il 
said nothing ; but what I might have said, was written in my 
face. Julia regarded me with a gaze of painful anxiety. What 
she read in my looks must have been troublously impressive. 
Her cheeks grew paler as she looked. Her eyes wandered 
from me vacantly, and I could see her thin soft lips quivering 
faintly like rose-leaves which an envious breeze has half sepa- 
rated from the parent-flower. Mrs. Delaney watched our 
mutual faces, and I left the room to avoid her scrutiny. I only 
re-entered it with the physician. He administered medicine to 
my wife. 

“ She will do very well now, I think,” he said to me when 
leaving the house ; “ but she requires to be treated very tender- 
ly. All causes of excitement must he kept from her. She 
needs soothing, great care, watchful anxiety. Clifford, above 
all, you should leave her as little as possible. This old woman, 
her mother, is no fit companion for her — scarcely a pleasant 
one. I do not mean to reproach you ; ascribe what I say to a 
real desire to serve and make you happy ; but let me tell you 
that Mrs. Delaney has intimated to me that you neglect your 
wife, that you leave her very much at night ; and she further 
intimates, what I feel assured can not well he the case, that you 
have fallen into other and much more evil habits.” 

“ The hag !” 

“ She is all that, and loves you no better now than before. 
Still, it is well to deprive such people of their scandal-monger- 
ing, of the meat for it at least. I trust, Clifford, for your 
own sake, that you were absent of necessity on Wednesday 
night.” 

“ It will he enough for me to think so, sir,” was my reply. 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


24S 


“ Surely, if you do think so ; but I am too old a man, and too 
old a friend of your own and wife’s family, to justify you in 
taking exception to what I say. I hope you do not neglect 
this dear child, for she is one too sweet, too good, too gentle, 
Clifford, to be subjected to hard usage and neglect. I think 
her one of earth’s angels — a meek creature, who would never 
think or do wrong, but would rather suffer than complain. I 
sincerely hope, for your own sake, as well as hers, that you 
truly estimate her worth.” 

I could not answer the good old man, though I was angry 
with him. My conscience deprived me of the just power to 
give utterance to my anger. I was silent, and he forbore any 
further reference to the subject. Shortly after he took his leave, 
and I re-ascended the stairs. Wearing slippers, I made little 
noise, and at the door of my wife’s chamber I caught a sentence 
from the lips of Mrs. Delaney, which made me forget everything 
that the doctor had been saying. 

“ But Julia, there must have been some accident — something 
must have happened. Did your foot slip 1 perhaps, in getting 

out of the carriage, or in going up stairs, or . There must 

have been something to frighten you, or hurt you. What 
was it 1” 

I paused ; my heart rose like a swelling, struggling mass in 
the gorge of my throat. I listened for the reply. A deep sigh 
followed ; and then I heard a reluctant, faint utterance of the 
single word, “ Nothing !” 

“ Nothing ?” repeated the old lady. “ Surely, Julia, there 
was something. Recollect yourself. You know you rode home 
with Mr. Edgerton. It was past one o’clock ” 

“No more — no more, mother. There was nothing — nothing 
that I recollect. I know nothing of what happened. Hardly 
know where I am now.” 

I felt a momentary pang that 1 had lingered at the entrance. 
Besides, there was no possibility that she would have revealed 
anything to the inquisitive old woman. Perhaps, had this 
been probable, I should not have felt the scruple and the pang. 
The very questions of Mrs. Delaney were as fully productive 
of evil in my mind, as if Julia had answered decisively on every 
topic. I entered the room, and Mrs. Delaney, after some little 


244 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


lingering, took her departure, with a promise to return again 
soon. I paced the chamber with eyes bent upon the floor. 

“Come to me, Edward — come sit beside me.” Such were 
the gentle words of entreaty which my wife addressed to me. 
Gentle words, and so spoken — so sweetly, so frankly, as if 
from the very sacredest chamber of her heart. Could it be 
that guilt also harbored in that very heart — that it was the 
language of cunning on her lips — the cunning of the serpent? 
Ah ! how can we think that with serpent-like cunning, there 
should be dove-like guilelessness ? My soul revolted at the 
idea. The sounds of the poor girl’s voice sounded like hissing 
in my ears. I sat beside her as she requested, and almost 
started, as I felt her fingers playing with the hair upon my 
temples. 

“ You are cold to me, dear husband ; ah ! be not cold. I have 
narrowly escaped from death. So they tell me — so I feel ! Be 
not cold to me. Let me not think that I am burdensome to 
you.” 

“ Why should you think so, Julia ?” 

“ Ah ! your words answer your question, and speak for me. 
They are so few — they have no warmth in them; and then, 
you leave me so much, dear husband — why, why do you 
leave me ?” 

“ You do not miss me much, Julia.” 

“ Do I not ! ah ! you do me wrong. I miss nothing else but 
you. I have all that I had when we were first married — all 
but my husband !” 

“Do not deceive yourself, Julia; these fine speeches do not 
deceive me. I am afraid that the love of woman is a very 
light thing. It yields readily to the wind. Tt does not keep 
in one direction long, any more than the vane on the house-top.” 

“ You do not think so, Edward. Such is not my love. Alas ! 
I know not how to make it known to you, husband, if it be not 
already known ; and yet it seems to me that you do not know it, 
or, if you do, that you do not care much about it. You seem to 
care very little whether I love you or not.” 

I exclaimed bitterly, and with the energy of deep feeling. 

“ Care little ! I care little whether you love me or no ! Paha I 
Julia, you must think me a fool !” 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


245 


It did seem to me a sort of mockery, knowing my feelings as 
I did — knowing that all my folly and suffering came from the 
very intensity of my passion — that I should be reproached, by 
its object, with indifference ! I forgot, that, as a cover for m}^ 
suspicion, I had been striving with all the industry of art tc 
put on the appearance of indifference. I did not give myself 
sufficient credit for the degree of success with which I had 
labored, or I might have suddenly aivived at the gi-atifying con- 
clusion, that, while I was impressed and suffering with the 
pangs of jealousy, my wife was trembling with fear that she 
had for ever lost my affections. My language, the natural utter- 
ance of my real feelings, was not true to the character I had 
assumed. It filled the countenance of the suffering woman 
with consternation. She shrunk from me in terror. Her hand 
v/as withdrawn from my neck, as she tremulously replied : — 

“ Oh, do not speak to me in such tones. Do not look so 
harshly upon me. What have I done?” 

“ Ay ! ay !” I muttered, turning away. 

She caught my hand. 

“ Do not go — do not leave me, and with such a look! Oh I 
husband, I may not live long. I feel that I have had a very 
narrow escape within these few days past. Do not kill me with 
cruel looks ; with words, that, if cruel from you, would sooner 
kill than the knife in savage hands. Oh ! tell me in what have 
I offended ? What is it you think ? For what am I to blame ? 
What do you doubt — suspect?” 

These questions were asked hurriedly, apprehensively, with 
a look of vague terror, her cheeks whitening as she spoke, her 
eyes darting wildly into mine, and her lips remaining parted 
after she had spoken. 

“ Ah 1” I exclaimed, keenly watching her. Her glance s nik 
beneath my gaze. I put my hand upon her own. 

“ What do I suspect? What should I suspect? Hal” — 
Here I arrested myself. My ardent anxiety to know the truth, 
led me to forget my caution; to exhibit a degree of eagerness, 
which might have proved that I did suspect and seriously. To 
exhibit tlie possession of jealousy was to place her upon her 
guard — such was the suggestion of that miserable policy by 
which I had been governed — and defeat the impression of that 


246 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


/eeling of perfect security and indifference, which I had been 
so long striving to awaken. I recovered myself, with this 
thought, in season to re-assume this appearance. 

Your mind still Avanders, Julia. What should I suspect ? 
and Avhom ? You do not suppose me to be of a suspicious 
nature, do you V’ 

“Not altogether — not always — no ! But, of course, there is 
iK>thing to suspect. I do not know what I say. I believe I do 
wander.” 

This rejdy Avas also spoken hurriedly, but with an obvious 
effoit at composure. The eagerness with which she seized upon 
my words, insisting upon the absence of any cause of suspicion, 
and ascribing to her late delirium, the tacit admissions Avhich her 
look and language had made, I need not say, contributed to 
strengthen my suspicions, and to confirm all the previous con- 
jectures of my jealous spirit. 

“ Be quiet,” I said with an air of sang froid. “ Do not vrorry 
yourself in this manner. You need sleep. Try for it, while I 
leave you.” 

“ Do not leave me ; sit beside me, dear Edward. I will sleep 
so much better when you are beside me.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“ Yes, believe me. Ah ! that 1 could always keep you be- 
side me !” 

‘ What ! you are for a new honeymoon ?” I said this in a 
tone of merriment, which Heaven knows, I little felt. 

“ Do not speak of it so lightly; Edward. It is too serious a 
matter. Ah ! that you would always remain with me ; that you 
would never leave me.” 

Pshaw ! What sickly tenderness is this ! Why, how could 
I earn my bread or yours ?” 

“ I do not mean that you should neglect your business, but 
that when business is over, you should give me all your time as 
you used to. Eem ember, how pleasantly we passed the even- 
ings after our marriage. Ah ! how could you forget V* 

“ I do not, Julia.” 

“ But you do not care for them. We spend no such evenings 
now !” 

“ No ! but it is no fault of mine !” I said gloomily ; then, in- 


STILL THE CLOUD. 


247 


teiTupting her answer, as if dreading that she might utter 
some simple but true remark, which might refute the interpreta- 
tion which my words conveyed, that the fault was hers, I en- 
joined silence upon her. 

“ You scarcely speak in your right mind yet, Julia. Be quiet, 
therefore, and try to sleep.” 

“Well, if you will sit beside me.” 

“ I will do so, since you wish for it ; but where’s the need ]” 

“Ah! do not ask the need, if you still love me,” was all sha 
said, and looked at me with such eyes — so tearful, bright, so sao, 
soliciting — that, though I did not less doubt, I could no longer 
deny. I resumed the seat beside her. She again placed he 
fingers in my hair, and in a little while sunk into a profouna 
slumber, only broken by an occasional sob, which subsided kitf) 
a sigh. 

Were she guilty — such was the momentary suggestion of the 
good angel — could she sleep thus? — thus quietly, confidingly, 
beside the man she had wronged — her fingers still paddling in 
his hair — her sleeping eyes still turning in the direction of his 
face ? 

To the clear, open mind, the suggestion w-ould have had the 
force of a conclusive argument ; but mine was no longer a clear, 
open mind. I had the disease of the blind heart upon me, and 
all things came out upon my vision as through a glass, darkly. 
The evil one at my elbow jeered when the good angel spoke. 

“ Fool! does she not see that she can blind you still!” Then, 
in the vanity and vexation of my spirit, I mused upon it 
further, and said to myself: — “Ay, but she will find, ere 
many days, that I am no longer to be blinded !” The scales 
were never thicker upon ray sight than when I boasted in this 
foolish wise. 


CONFESSION, OK THE BLIND HEART. 




OHAPTEI: XXXIV. 

A father’s griefs. 

She '•ontinucd to improve, but slowly. Her organization 
was aiways very delicate. Her frame was becoming thin, al- 
most to meagreness ; and this last disaster, whatever might be 
its cause, bad contributed still more to weaken a constitution 
which education and nature had never prepared for much hard 
encounter. But, though I saw these proofs of feebleness — of 
a feebleness that might have occasioned reasonable apprehen 
sions of premature decay, and possibly very rapid decline — 
there were little circumstances constantly occurring — looks 
shown, words spoken — which kept up the irritation of my soul, 
and prevented me from doing justice to her enfeebled condi- 
tion. My sympathies were absorbed in my suspicions. My 
heart was the debateable land of seif. The blind passion 
which enslaved it, I need scarce say, was of a nature so potent, 
that it could easily impregnate, with its own color, all the ob- 
jects of its survey. Seen through the eyes of suspicion, there 
is no truth, no virtue ; the smile is that of the snake ; the tear, 
that of the crocodile ; the assurance, that of the traitor. There 
is no act, look, word, of the suspected object, however innocent, 
which, to the diseased mind of jealousy, does not suggest con- 
jectures and arguments, all conclusive or confirmatory of its 
doubts and fears. It is not necessary to say that I shrunk from 
Julia’s endearment, requited her smiles with indifference ; and, 
though I did not avoid her presence — I could not, in the few 
days when her case was doubtful — yet exhibited, in all respects, 
the conduct of one who was in a sort of Coventry. 

But one fact may be stated — one of many — which seemed to 


A father’s grief. 


:^49 

give a sanction to my suspicions, will help to justify my course, 
and which, at the time, was terribly conclusive, to my reason, 
of the things which I feared. She spoke audibly the name of 
Edgerton, twice, thrice, while she slept beside me, in tones very 
faint, it is true, but still distinct enough. The faintness of her 
utterance, gave the tones an emphasis of tenderness which per- 
haps was unintended. Twice, thrice, that fatal name ; and then, 
what a sigh from the full volume of a surcharged heart. Let 
any one conceive my situation — with my feelings, intense on all 
subjects — my suspicions already so thoroughly awakened; and 
then fancy what they must have been on hearing that utterance ; 
from the unguarded lips of slumber ; from the wife lying beside 
him ; and of the name of him on whom suspicion already rested. 
I hung over the sleeper, breathless, almost gasping, finally, in 
the effort to contain my breath — in the hope to hear something, 
hoAvever slight, which was to confirm finally, or finally end my 
doubts. I heard no more ; but did more seem to be necessary ? 
What jealous heart had not found this sufficiently conclusive ? 
And that deep-drawn sigh, sobbing, as of a heart breaking with 
the deferred hope, and the dream of youth baffled at one sweep- 
ing, severing blow. 

I rose. I could no longer subdue my emotions to the neces- 
sary degree of watchfulness. I trod the chamber till daylight. 
Then, I dressed myself and went out into the street. I had no 
distinct object. A vague persuasion only, that I must do some- 
thing — that something must be done — that, in short, it was 
necessary to force this exhausting drama to its fit conclusion. 
Of course William Edgerton was my object. As yet, how to 
bring about the issue, was a problem which my mind was not 
prepared to solve. Whether I was to stab or shoot him ; 
whether we were to go through the tedious processes of the duel ; 
to undergo the fatigue of preliminaries, or to shorten them by 
sudden rencounter ; these were topics which filled my thoughts 
confusedly ; upon which I had no clear conviction ; not because 
I did not attempt to fix upon a course, but from a sheer in- 
ability to think at all. My whole brain was on fire ; a chaotic 
mass, such as rushes up from the unstopped vents of the vol- 
cano — fire, stones, and lava — but dense smoke enveloping the 
whole. 


11 * 


250 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


In this frame of mind I hurried through the streets. The 
shops were yet unopened. The sun was just about to rise. 
There was a humming sound, like that of distant waters mur- 
muring along the shore, which filled my ears ; but otherwise 
everything was silent. Sleep had not withdrawn with night 
from his stealthy watch upon the household. It seemed to me 
that I alone could not sleep. Even guilt — if my wife were 
really guilty — even guilt could sleep. I left her sleeping, and 
how sweetly ! as if the dream which had made her sob and sigh, 
had been succeeded by others, that made all smiles again. I 
could not sleep, and yet, who, but a few months before, had 
been possessed of such fair prospects of peace and prosperity? 
Fortune held forth sufficient promise; fame — so far as fame can 
be accorded by a small community — had done something to- 
ward giving me an honorable repute; and love — had not love 
been seemingly as liberal and prompt as ever young passions 
could have desired ? I was making money ; I was getting 
reputation ; the pnly woman whom I had ever loved or sought, 
was mine ; and mine, too, in spite of opposition and discourage- 
ments which would have chilled the ardor of half the lovers 
in the world. And yet I was not happy. It takes so small an 
amount of annoyance to produce misery in the heart of self- 
esteem, when united with suspicion, that it was scarcely pos- 
sible that I should be happy. Such a man has a taste for self- 
torture ; as one troubled with an irritating humor, is never at 
rest, unless he is tearing the flesh into a sore ; he may then rest 
as he may. 

I took the way to my office. It was not often that I went 
thither before breakfast. But William Edgerton had been in 
the habit of doing so. He lived in the neighborhood, and his 
father had taught him this habit during the period when he was 
employed in studying the profession. It might be that I should 
find him there on the present occasion. Such was my notion. 
What farther thought I had I know not ; but a vague suggestion 
that, in that quiet hour — there — without eye to see, or hand to 
interpose, I might drag from his heart the fearful secret — I 
might compel confession, take my vengeance, and rid myself 
finally of that cruel agony which was making me its miserable 
puppet. Crude, wild notions these, but very natural. 


A father’s grief. 


251 


I turned the corner of the street. The window of my office 
was open. “ He is then there,” T muttered to myself; and my 
teeth clutched each other closely. I buttoned my coat. My 
heart was swelling. I looked around me, and up to the win- 
dows. The street was very silent — the grave not more so. I 
strode rapidly across, threw open the door of the office which 
stood ajar, and beheld, not the person whom I sought, but his 
venerable father. 

The sight of that white-headed old man filled me with a 
sense of shame and degradation. What had he not done for 
me 1 How great his assistance, how kind his regards, how 
liberal his offices. He had rescued me from the bondage of 
poverty. He had put forth the hand of help, with a manly 
grasp of succor at the very moment when it was most needed ; 
had helped to make me what I was ; and, for all these, I had 
come to put to death his only son. A revulsion of feeling took 
place within my bosom. These thoughts were instantaneous — 
a sort of lightning-flash from the moral world of thought. I 
stood abashed ; brought to my senses in an instant, and was 
scarcely able to conceal my discomfiture and confusion. I stood 
before him Avith the feeling, and must have worn the look, of a 
culprit. Fortunately, he did not perceive my confusion. Poor 
old man ! Cares of his OAvn — cares of a father, too completely 
occupied his mind, to suffer his senses to discharge their duties 
with freedom. 

“I am glad to see you, Clifford, though I did not expect it. 
Young men of the present day are not apt to rise so early.” 

“ I must confess, sir, it is not my habit.” 

“ Better if it were. The present generation, it seems to me, 
may be considered more fortunate, in some respects, than the 
past, though they are scarcely wiser. They seem to me exempt 
from such necessities as encountered their fathers. Their tasks 
are fcAver — their labor is lighter ” 

“ Are their cares the lighter in consequence ?” I demanded. 

“ That is the question, ” he replied. “ For myself, I think 
not. They grow gray the sooner. They have fewer tasks, but 
heavier troubles. They live better in some respects. They 
have luxuries which, in my day, youth were scarcely permitted 
to enjoy ; and which, indeed, were not often enjoyed by age 


252 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

But they have little pea-cc: — and, look at the bankruptcies of 
our city. They are without number — they produce no shame 

— do not seem to affect the credit of the parties ; and, certainly, 
in no respect diminish their expenditures. They live as if the 
present day were the last they had to live ; and living thus, 
they must live dishonestly. It is inevitable. The moral sense 
is certainly in a much lower condition in our country, than I 
have ever known it. What can be the reason V* 

“ The facility of procuring money, perhaps. Money is the 
most dangerous of human possessions.” 

“ There can be none other. Clifford !” 

“ Sir.” 

“I change the subject abruptly. Have you seen my son 
lately, Clifford ?” 

The question was solemnly, suddenly spoken. It staggered 
me. What could it mean ? That there was a meaning in it — 
a deep meaning — was unquestionable. But of what nature] 
Did the venerable man suspect my secret — could he by any 
chance conjecture my purpose ] It is one quality of a mind not 
exactly satisfied of tlie propriety of its proceedings, to be sus- 
picious of all things and persons — to fancy that the conscious- 
ness which distresses itself, is also the consciousness of its 
neighbor's. Hence the blush upon the cheek — the faltering 
accents — the tremulousness of limb, and feebleness of move- 
ment. For a moment after the old man spoke — troubled with 
this consciousness, I could not answer. But my self-esteem 
came to my relief — nay, it had sufficed to conceal my disquiet. 
My looks were subdued to a seeming calm — my voice was un- 
broken, while I answered : — 

“I have seen him within a few days, sir — a few nights ago 
we were at Mrs. Delaney’s party. But why the question, sir ? 
-—what troubles you ?” 

“ Strange that you have not seen ! Did you not remark tho 
alteration in his appearance ?” 

“ I must confess, sir, I did not ; but, perhaps, I did not remark 
him closely among the crowd.” 

“ He is altered — terribly altered, Clifford. It is very strange 
that you have not seen it. It is visible to myself — his mother 

— all the family, and some of its friends. We tremble for his 


A father’s grief. 


•253 


life. He is a mere skeleton — moves without life or animation, 
feebly — his cheeks are pale and thin, his lips white, and his 
eyes have an appearance which, beyond anything besides, dis- 
tresses me — either lifelessly dull, or suddenly flushed up with 
an expression of wildness, which occurs so suddenly as to dis- 
tress us with the worst apprehensions of his sanity.” 

“ Indeed, sir !” I exclaimed with natural surprise. 

“ So it appears to us, his mother and myself, though, as it has 
escaped your eyes, I trust that we have exaggerated it. That 
we have not imagined all of it, however, we have other proofs 
to show. His manner is changed of late, and most of his habits. 
The change is only within the last six months ; so suddenly 
made that it has been forced upon our sight. Once so frank, he 
is now reserved and shrinking to the last degree ; speaks little ; 
is reluctant to converse ; and, I am compelled to believe, not 
only avoids my glance, but fears it.” 

It is very strange that he should do so, sir. I can think of 
no reason why he should avoid your glance, Oa a yi'i' ^ 
Have you any suspicions ?” 

“ I have.” 

“ Ha ! have you indeed ?” 

The old man drew his chair closer to ne, r.nd, putting his 
hand on mine, with eyes in which the tears, big, slow-gathering, 
began to fill — trickling at length, one by one, through the 
venerable furrows of his cheeks- he replied in faltering ac- 
cents : — 

“ A terrible suspicion, Clifford. I am afraid he drinks ; that 
he frequents gambling-houses ; that, in short, he is about to be 
lost to us, body and soul, for ever.” 

Deep and touching was the groan that followed from that old 
man’s bosom. I hastened to relieve him, 

■ I am sure, sii\ that you do your son gi’eat injustice. I can- 
not conceive it possible that he should have fallen into these 
habits ” 

He is out nightly — 'late- -till near daylight. But two hours 
ago he returned home. Let me confess to you, Clifford, what I 
should be loath to confess to anybody else. I followed him 
last night. He took the path to the suburbs, and I kept him in 
sight almost till he reached your dwelling. Then I lost him 


254 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


He moved too rapidly then for my old limbs, and disappeared 
among those groves of wild orange that fill your neighborhood. 
I searched them as closely as I could in the imperfect starlight, 
but could see nothing of him. I am told that there are gam- 
bling-houses, notorious enough, in the suburbs just beyond you. 
I fear that he found shelter in these — that he finds shelter in 
them nightly.” 

I scarcely breathed while listening to the unhappy father’s 
narrative. There was one portion of it to which I need not 
refer the reader, as calculated to confirm my own previous con- 
victions. I struggled with my feelings, however, in respect for 
his. I kept them down and spoke. 

“ In this one fact, Mr. Edgerton, I see nothing to alarm you. 
Your son may have been engaged far more innocently than you 
imagine. He is young — you know too well the practices of 
young men. As for the drinking he is perhaps the very last 
person whom I should suspect of excess. 1 have always thought 
his Lemperauce unquestionable.” 

“ U ntil recently, I should have had no fears myself. But 
connecting one fact with another — his absence all night, nightly 
— the stealthiness with which he departs from home after the 
Amily has retired — the stealthiness with which he returns just 
before day— his visible agitation when addressed — and, oh 
Clifford ! worst of all signs, the snrinking of his eye beneath 
mine and his mother’s — the fear to meet, and the effort to 
avoid us — these are the signs which most pain me, and excite 
my apprehensions. But look at his face and figure also. The 
haggard misery of -the one, sign of sleeplessness and late watch- 
ing — the attenuated feebleness of the other, showing the effects 
of some practices, no matter of what particular sort, which are 
undermining his constitution, and rapidly tending to destroy 
him. If you but look in his eye as I have done, marking its 
wildness, its wandering, its sensible expression of shame — you 
can hardly fail to think with me that something is morally 
wrong. He is guilty ” 

“ He is guilty !” 

I echoed the words of the father, involuntarily. They 
struck the chord of conviction in my own soul, and seemed to me 
the language of a judgment. 


A father’s grief. 


265 


Ha ! You know it, then cried the old man. Speak ! 
Tell me, Clifford — what is his folly? What is the particular 
guilt and shame into which he has fallen ?” 

I knew not that I had spoken until I heard these words. 
The agitation of the father was greatly increased. Truly, his 
sorrows were sad to look upon. I answered him : — 

“ I simply echoed your words, sir — I am ignorant, as I said 
before ; and, indeed, I may venture, I think, with perfect safety, 
to assure you that gaming and drink have nothing to do with 
his appearance and deportment. I should rather suspect him of 
some improper — some guilty connection ” 

I felt that, in the utterance of these words, I too had become 
excited. My voice did not rise, but I knew that it had acquir- 
ed an intenseness which I as quickly endeavored to suppress. 
But the father had already beheld the expression in my face, 
and perhaps the sudden change in my tones grated harshly upon 
his ear. I could see that his looks became more eager and in- 
quiring. I could note a greater degree of apprehension and 
anxiety in his eyes. I subdued myself, though not without 
some effort. 

“William Edgerton may be ening, sir — that I do not deny, 
for I have seen too little of him of late to say anything of his 
proceedings ; but I am very confident when I say that excess 
in liquor can not be a vice of his ; and as for gaming, I should 
fancy that he was the last person in the world likely to be 
tempted to the indulgence of such a practice.” 

The father shook his head mournfully. 

“Why this shame? — this fear? Besides, Clifford, what wo 
know of our son makes us equally suie that women have 
nothing to do with his excesses. But these conjectures h dp us 
nothing. Clifford, I must look to you.” 

“ What can I do for you, sir ?” 

“He is my son, my only son — the care of znany sad, sleep- 
less hours. It was his mothers hope that he would be our 
solace in the weary and the sad ones. You can not understand 
yet how much the parent lives in the child — how many of his 
hopes settle there. William has already disappointed us in our 
ambition. He will be nothing that we hoped him to be; but of 
this 1 complain rot. But that he should become base, Clifford ; 


256 


CONFESSION, OB THE BLIND HEART. 


a night-prowler in the streets ; a hanger-on of stews and gam- 
ing-houses ; a brawler at an alehouse bar ; a man to skulk through 
life and society ; down-looking in his father’s sight ; despised 
in that of the community — oh ! these are the cruel, the dread- 
ful apprehensions !” 

“ But you know not that he is any of these.” 

“ True ; but there is something grievously wrong when the 
son dares not meet the eye of a parent with manly fearlessness ; 
when he looks without joyance at the face of a mother, and 
shrinks from her endearments as if he felt that he deserved 
them not. William Edgerton is miserable ; that is evident 
enough. Now, misery does not always imply guilt ; but, 
in his case, what else should it imply! He has had no 
misfortunes. He is independent ; he is beloved by his parents, 
and by his friends ; he has had no denial of the affections; 
in short, there is no way of accounting for his conduct or 
appearance, but by the supposition that he has fallen into 
vicious habits. Whatever these habits are, they are killing 
him. He is a mere skeleton ; his whole appearance is that of a 
man running a rapid course of dissipation which can only ad- 
vance in shame, and terminate in death. Clifford, if I have 
ever served you in the hour of your need, serve me in this of 
mine. Save my son for me. Bring him back from his folly; 
restore him, if you can, to peace and purity. See him, will you 
not ? Seek him out ; see him ; probe his secret ; and tell me 
what can be done to rescue him before it be too late.” 

“ Reallv, Mr. Edgerton, you confound me. What can I 
do?” 

“I know not. Every thing, perhaps! I confess I can not 
counsel you. I can not even suggest how you should begin. 
You must judge for yourself. You must think and make your 
approaches according to your own judgment. Remember, that 
it is not in his behalf only. Think of the father, the mother ! 
our hope, our all is at stake. I speak to you in the language 
of a child, Clifford. I am a child in this. This boy has been 
the apple of our eyes. It is our sight for which I seek your 
help. I know your good sense and sagacity. I know that you 
can trace out his secret when I should fail. My feelings would 
blind me to the truth. They might lead me to use language 


XI father’s grief. 


257 


which would drive him from me. I leave it all to you. I know 
not who else can do for me half so well in a matter of this sort. 
Will you undertake it - 

Could I refuse ? This question was discussed in all its bear- 
ings, in a few lightning-like progresses of thought. I felt all 
its difficulties — anticipated the annoyances to which it would 
subject me, and the degree of self-forbearance which it would 
necessarily require ; yet, when I looked on the noble old gentle- 
man who sat beside me — his gray hairs, his pleading looks, the 
recollection of the deep debt of gratitude which I owed him — 
I put my hand in his ; I could resist no longer. 

• “ I will try !” was the brief answer which I made him. 

“ God bless, God speed you !” he exclaimed, squeezing my 
hand with a pressure that said everything, and we separated ; 
he for his family, and I for that new task which I had under- 
taken. How different from my previous purpose ! I was now 
to seek to save the person whom I had set forth that morning 
w'ith the purpose (if I had any purpose) to destroy. What a 
volume made up of contradictions and inconsistencies, strangely 
bound together, is the moral world of man ! 


258 


CONFBSSXOJJ, OB IHii HEART. 


OEAPTEIl XXXV. 

.1*' UOfcTlON OF '"THE QOBSTION.” 

iiJT Low to save himt How to approach him? Howto 
keep down my own sense of wrong, my own feeling of misery, 
while representing the wishes and the feelings of that good old 
man — that venerable father ? These were questions to afflict, 
to confound me ! Still, I was committed ; I must do what I 
had promised ; undertake it at least : and the conviction that 
such a task was to be the severest trial of my manliness, was a 
conviction that necessarily helped to strengthen me to go through 
with it like a man. 

What I had heard from Mr. Edgerton in relation to his son, 
though new, and somewhat surprising to myself, had not altered, 
in any respect, my impressions on the subject of his conduct 
toward, or with, my wife. Indeed, it rather served to confirm 
them I could have told the old man, that, in losing all traces 
of his son in the neighborhood of my dwelling the night when 
he pursued him, he had the most conclusive proofs that he had 
gone to no gaming-houses. But where did he go ? That was 
a question for myself. Had he entered my premises, and 
hidden himself amidst the foliage where I had myself so 
often harbored, while my object had been the secret inspec- 
tion of my household? Could it be that he had loitered 
there during the last few nights of my wife’s illness, in the vain 
hope of seeing me take my departure? This was the con- 
clusion which I reached, and with it came the next thought that 
he would revisit the spot again that night. Ha ! that thought I 
“Let him come!” I muttered to myself. “ I will •«»ndeavor to 
be in readiness !” 


APPLICATION OF THE QUESTION. 


259 


But, surely, the father was grievously in error ; his parental 
fear, alone, had certainly drawn the picture of his son’s reduced 
and miserable condition. I had seen nothing of this. I had 
observed that he was shy, incommunicative — seeking to avoid 
me, as, according to their showing, he had striven to avoid his 
parents. So far our experience had been the same. But I had 
totally failed to perceive the marks of suffering or of sin which 
the vivid feelings of the father on this subject had insisted were 
so apparent. I had seen in Edgerton only the false friend, the 
traitor, stealing like a serpent to my bower, to beguile from my 
side the only object which made it dear to me. I could see in 
him only the exulting seducer, confident in his ability, artful in 
his endeavors, winning in his accomplishments, and striving, 
with practised industry of libertinism, in the prosecution of his 
cruel schemes. I could see the grace of his bearing, the ease 
of his manner, the symmetry of his person, the neatness of his 
costume, the superiority of his dancing, the insinuation of his 
address. I could see these only ! That he looked miserable — 
that he was thin to meagreness, I had not seen. 

Yet, even were it so, what could this prove, as the father had 
conclusively shown, but guilt. Poverty could not trouble him 
— he had never been an unrequited lover. He had gone along 
the stream of society, indifferent to the lures of beauty, and 
with a bark that had always appeared studiously to keep aloof 
from the shores or shoals of matrimony. If he was miserable, 
his misery could only come from misconduct, not from mis- 
fortune. It was a misery engendered by guilt, and what was 
that guilt 1 I knew that he did not drink ; and was not his 
course in regard to Kingsley, as narrated by that person on the 
night when we went to the gaming-house together — was not 
that sufficient to show that he was no gamester, unless he hap- 
pened to be one of the most bare faced of all canting hypo- 
crites, which I could not believe him to be. What remained, 
but that my calculations were right 1 It was guilt that was sink- 
ing him, body and soul, so that his eye no longer dared to look 
upward — so that his ear shrunk from the sounds of those 
voices which, even in the language of kindness, were still 
speaking to him in the severest language of rebuke. And 
whom did that guilt concern more completely than myself? 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


2GU 

Say that the father was to lose his son, his only son — what 
was my loss, what was my shame ! and upon whom should the 
curse most fully and finally fall, if not upon the wrong-doer, 
though it so happened that the ruin of the guilty brought with 
it overthrow to the innocent scarcely less complete ! 

The extent of that guilt of Edgerton ] 

On this point all was a wilderness, vague, inconclusive, con- 
fused and crowded within my understanding. I believed that he 
had approached my wife with evil designs — I believed, without 
a doubt, that he had passed the boundaries of propriety in his 
intercourse with her ; but I believed not that she had fallen ! 
No ! I had an instinctive confidence in her purity, that render- 
ed it apparently impossible that she should lapse into the gross- 
ness of illicit love. What, then, was my fear ? That she did 
love him, though, struggling with the tendency of her heart, she 
had not yielded in the struggle. I believed that his grace, beauty, 
and accomplishments — his persevering attention — his similar 
tastes — had succeeded in making an impression upon her soul 
which had effectually eradicated mine. I believed that his at- 
tentions were sweet to her — that she had not the strength to 
reject them ; and, though she may have proved herself too virtu- 
ous to yield, she had not been sufficiently strong to repulse him 
with virtuous resentment. 

That Edgerton had not succeeded, did not lessen his offence. 
The attempt was an indignity that demanded atonement — that 
justified punishment equally severe with that which should have 
followed a successful prosecution of his purpose. Women are 
by nature weak. They are not to be tempted. He who, 
knowing their weakness, attempts their overthrow by that 
medium, is equally cowardly and criminal. I could not doubt 
that he had made this attempt ; but now it seemed necessary 
that I should suspend my indignation, in obedience with what 
appeared to be a paramount duty. A selfish reasoning now 
suggested compliance with this duty as a mean for procuring 
better intelligence than I already possessed. I need not say 
that the doubt was the pain in my bosom. I felt, in the words 
of the cold devil lago, those “ damned minutes” of him “ who 
dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves.” 

The shapeless character of my fears and .suspicions did not 


APPLICATION OF THE QUESTION. 


261 


by any means lessen their force and volume. On the contrary 
it caused them to loom out through the hazy atmosphere of the 
imagination, assuming aspects more huge and terrible, in con- 
se(|uence of their very indistinctness; as the phantom shapes 
along the mountains of the Brocken, gathering and scowling in 
the morning or the evening twilight. To obtain more precise 
knowledge — to be able to subject to grasp and measure the un- 
certain phantoms which I feared — was, if not to reduce their 
proportions, at least to rid me of that excruciating suspense, in 
determining what to do, which was the natural result of my 
present ignorance. 

With some painstaking, I was enabled to find and force .-in 
interview with Edgerton that very day. He made an effort to 
elude me — such an effort as he could make without allowing 
his object to be seen. But I was not to be bafiled. Having 
once determined upon my course, I was a puritan in the invete- 
racy with which I persevered in it. But it required no small 
struggle to approach the criminal, and so utterly to subdue my 
own sense of wrong, my suspicions and my hostility, as to keep 
in sight no more than the wishes and fears of the father. I 
have already boasted of my strength in some respects, even 
while exposing my Aveaknesses in others. That 1 could per- 
suade Edgerton and my wife, equally, of my iiidifierence, even 
at the moment when I was most agonized by my doubts of 
their purity, is a sufficient proof that I possessed a certain sort 
of strength. It was a moral strength, too, which could conceal 
the pangs inflicted by the vulture, even when it was preying 
upon the vitals of the best affections and the dearest hopes of 
the heart. It was necessary that I should put all this strength 
in requisition, as well to do what was required by the father, as 
to pierce, Avith keen eye, and considerate question, to the secret 
soul of the Avitness. I must assume the blandest manner of our 
youthful friendship : I must say kind things, and say them Avith 
a certain frank unconsciousness. I must use the language of a 
good fellow — a SAvorn companion — who is anxious to do justice 
to my friend’s father, and yet had no notion that my friend 
himself Avas doing the smallest thing to justify the unmeasured 
fears of the fond old man. Such Avas my cue at first. I am 
not so sure that I pursued it to the end ; but of this hereafter. 


262 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


My attention having been specially drawn to the personal 
appearance of William Edgerton, I was surprised, if not abso- 
lutely shocked, to see that the father had scarcely exaggerated 
the misery of his condition. He was the mere shadow of his 
former self. His limbs, only a year before, had been rounded 
even to plumpness. They were now sharp and angular. His 
skin was pale, his looks haggard ; and that apprehensive shrink- 
ing of the eye, which had called forth the most keen expressions 
of fear and suspicion from the father’s lips, was the prominent 
characteristic which commanded my attention during our brief 
interview. His eye, after the first encounter, no longer rose to 
mine. Keenly did I watch his face, though for an instant only. 
A sudden hectic flush mantled its paleness. T could perceive a 
nervous muscular movement about his mouth, and he slightly 
started when I spoke. 

“ Edgerton,” I said, with tones of good-humored reproach, 
“ there’s no finding you now-a-days. You have the invisible 
cap. What do you do with yourself 1 As for law, that seema 
destined to be a mourner so far as you are concerned. She sits 
like a widow in her weeds. You have abandoned, her : do you 
mean to abandon your friends also ?” 

He answered, with a faint attempt to smile : — 

“ No ; I have been to see you often, but you are never at 
home.” 

“ Ah ! I did not hear of it. But if you really wished to see 
a husband who has survived the honeymoon, I suspect that 
home is about the last place where you should seek for him. 
Julia did the honors, I trust?” 

His eye stole upward, met mine, and sunk once more upon 
the floor. He answered faintly : — 

“ Yes, but I have not seen her for some days.” 

“ Not since Mother Delaney’s party, I believe ?” 

The color came again into his cheeks, but instantly after was 
succeeded by a deadly paleness. 

“ What a bore these parties are ! and such parties as those of 
Mrs. Delaney are particularly annoying to me. Why the d — 1 
couldn’t the old tabby halter her hobby without calling in her 
neighbors to witness the painful spectacle? You were there, I 
think?” 


APPLICATION OF THE QUESTION. 


263 


“Yes.” 

“ I left early. I got heartily sick. You know I never like 
such places ; and, as soon as they began dancing, I took advan- 
tage of the fuss and fiddle to steal ofi*. It was unfortunate I 
did so, for Julia was taken sick, and has had a narrow chance 
for it. I thought I should have lost her.” 

All this was spoken in tones of the coolest imaginable indif- 
ference. Edgerton was evidently surprised. He looked up 
with some curiosity in his glance, and more confidence ; and, 
with accents that slightly faltered, he asked ; — 

“ Is she well again 1 I trust she is better now.” 

“ Yes !” I answered, with the same sang-froid. “ But I’ve 
had a serious business of watching through the last three nights. 
Her peril was extreme. She lost her little one.” 

A visible shudder went through his frame. 

“ Tired to death of the walls of the house, which seems a dun- 
geon to me, I dashed out this morning, at daylight, as soon as I 
found I could safely leave her ; and, strolling down to the office, 
who should I find there but your father, perched at the desk, 
and seemingly inclined to resume all his former practice?” 

“ Indeed ! my father — so early % What could be the matter % 
Did he tell you ?” 

“ Yes, i’faith, he is in tribulation about you. He fancies you 
are in a fair way to destruction. You can’t conceive what he 
fancies. It seems, according to his account, that you are a 
night-stalker. Pie dwells at large upon your nightly absences 
from home, and then about your appearance, which, to say 
truth, is very wretched. You scarcely look like the same man, 
Edgerton. Have you been sick? What’s the matter with 
you ?” 

“ I am Twt altogether well,” he said, evasively. 

“Yes, but mere indisposition would never produce such a 
change, in so short a period, in any man ! Your father is dis- 
posed to ascribe it to other causes.” 

“ Ah ! what does he think ?” 

I fancied there was mingled curiosity and trepidation in this 
inquiry. 

“ He suspects you of gaming and drinking; but I assured 
him, very confidently, that such was not the case. On one of 


264 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

these heads 1 could speak confidentlj^ for I met Kingsley the 
other night— the night of Mother Delaney*'s party — who was 
hot and heavy against you because you refused to lend him 
money for such purposes. I was more indulgent, lent him the 
money, went with him to the house, and returned home with a 
pocket full of specie, sufficient to set up a small banking-opera- 
tion of my own.” 

“ You ! can it be possible 

“ True ; and no such dull way of spending an evening either. 
I got home in the small hours, and found Julia delirious. I 
haven’t had such a fright for a stolen pleasure, Heaven knows 
when. There was the doctor, and there my eternal mother-in- 
law, and my poor little wife as near the grave as could he ! 
But the circumstance of refusing the money to Kingsley, know- 
ing his object, made me confident that gaming was not the cause 
of your night-stalking, and so I told the old gentleman.” 

“ And what did he say ?” 

“Shook his head mournfully, and reasoned in this manner: 
* He has no pecuniary necessities, has no oppressive toils, and 
has never had any disappointment of heart. There is nothing 
to make him behave so, and look so, but guilt — guilt !’ ” 

I repeated the last word with an entire change in the tone of 
my voice. Light, lively, and playful before, I spoke that single 
word with a stern solemnity, and, bending toward him, my eye 
keenly traversed the mazes of his countenance. 

He has it H I thought , to myself, as his head drooped for- 
ward, and his whole frame shuddered momentarily. 

“But” — here my tones again became lively and playful — I 
even laughed — “I told the old man that I fancied I could hit 
the nail more certainly on the head. In short, I said I could 
pretty positively say what was the cause of your conduct and 
condition.” 

“Ah!” and, as he uttered this monosyllable, he made a fee- 
ble effort to rise from his seat, but sunk back, and again fixed 
his eye upon the floor in visible emotion. 

“ Yes ! I told him — was I not right ? — that a woman was at 
the bottom of it all 1” 

He started to his feet. His face was averted from me. 

“ Ha I was I not right 1 I knew it ! I saw through it from 


APPLICATION OF THE QUESTION. 


265 


the first ; and, though I did not tell the old man that, I was 
pretty sure that you were trespassing upon your neighbor’s 
grounds. Ha! what say you? Was I not right ? Were you 
not stealing to forbidden places — playing the snake, on a small 
scale, in some blind man’s Eden ? Ha I ha ! what say you to 
that 1 I am right, am I not ? eh ?” 

I clapped him on the shoulder as I spoke. His face had been 
half averted from me while I was speaking ; but now it turned 
upon me, and his glance met mine, teeming with inquisitive 
horror. 

“ No ! no ! you are not right I” he faltered out ; “ it is not so. 
Nothing is the matter with me! I am quite well — quite! I 
will see my father, and set him right.” 

“Do so,” I said, coolly and indifferently ‘ — “do so; tell him 
what you please : but you can’t change my conviction that 
you’re after some pretty woman, and probably poaching on 
some neighbor’s territory. Come, make me your confidante, 
Edgerton. Let us know the history of your misfortune. Is 
the lady pliant? I should judge so, since you continue to spend 
so many nights away from home. Come, make a clean breast 
of it. Out with your secret ! I have always been your friend. 
IVe could not betray each other, I think /” 

“ You are quite mistaken,” he said, with the effort of one who 
is half strangled. “ There is nothing in it ; I assure you, you 
were never more mistaken.” 

“ Pshaw, Edgerton ! you may blind papa, but you can not 
blind me. Keep your secret, if you please, but, if jmu provoke 
me, I will trace it out ; I will unkennel you. If I do not show 
the sitting hare in a fortnight, by the course of the hunter, tell 
me I am none myself.” 

His consternation increased, but I did not allow it to disarm 
me. I probed him keenly, and in such a manner as to make 
him wince with apprehension at every word which I uttered. 
Morally, William Edgerton was a brave man. Guilt alone 
made him a coward. It actually gave me pain, after a while, 
to behold his wretched imbecility. He hung upon my utter- 
ance with the trembling suspense of one whose eye has become 
enchained with the fascinating gaze of the serpent. I put my 
questions and comments home to him, on the assumption tl at 

12 


266 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


he was playing the traitor with another’s wife; though taking 
care, all the while, that my manner should be that of one who 
has no sort of apprehensions on his own score. My deportment 
and tone tallied well with the practised indifference which had 
distinguished my previous overt conduct. It deceived him on 
that head ; but the truth, like a sharp knife, was no less keen 
in penetrating to his soul ; and, preserving my coolness and 
directness, with that singular tenacity of purpose which I could 
maintain in spite of my own suflerings — and keep them still 
unsuspected — I did not scruple to impel the sharp iron into 
every sensitive place within his bosom. 

He writhed visibly before me. His struggles did not please 
me, but I sought to produce them simply because they seemed 
so many proofs confirming the truth of my conjectures. The 
fiend in my own soul kept whispering, “He has it!” — and a 
fatal spell, not unlike that which riveted his attention to the 
language which tore and vexed him, urged me to continue it 
until at length the sting became too keen for his endurance. In 
very desperation, he broke away from the fetters of that fascina 
tion of terror which had held him for one mortal hour to the spot 

“No more! no more!” he exclaimed, with an uncontrollablt 
burst of emotion. “ You torture me ! I can stand it no longer 1 
There is nothing in your conjecture ! There is no reason for 
your suspicions ! She is — ” 

“She? Ah!” 

I could not suppress the involuntary exclamation. The trutl 
seemed to be at hand. I was premature. My utterance brought 
him to his senses. He stopped, looked at me wildly for an in- 
stant, his eyes dilated almost to bursting. He seemed suddenly 
to be conscious that the secrets of his soul — its dark, uncommis- 
sioned secrets — were about to force themselves into sight and 
speech ; and unable, perhaps, to arrest them in any other way 
he darted headlong from my presence. 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


267 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

l^EDITATED EXILE. 

With his departiire sunk the spirit which had sustained me. 
I had not gone through that scene willingly; I had suffered 
quite as many pangs as himself. I had made my own misery, 
though disguised under the supposed condition of another, the 
subject of my own mockery ; and if I succeeded in driving the 
iron into his soul, the other end of the shaft was all the while 
working in mine ! His flight was an equal relief to both of us. 
The stern spirit left me from that moment. My agony found 
relief, momentary though it was, in a sudden gush of tears. 
]\[y hot, heavy head sank upon my palms, and I groaned in un- 
reserved homage to the never- slumbering genius of pain — that 
genius which alone is universal — which adopts us from the 
cradle — which distinguishes our birth by our tears, hallows the 
sentiment of grief to us from the beginning, and maintains the 
fountains which supply its sorrows to the end. The lamb skips, 
the calf leaps, the fawn bounds, the bird chirps, the young colt 
frisks; all things but man enjoy life from its very dawn. Ho 
alone is feeble, suffering. His superior pangs and sorrows are 
the first proofs of his singular and superior destiny. 

Bitter was the gush of tears that rolled from the surcharged 
fountains of my heart; bitter, but free — flowing tc my relief, 
at the moment when my head seemed likely to burst witn a vol- 
canic volume within it, and when a blistering arrow seemed 
slowly to traverse, to and fro, the most sore and shrinking pas- 
sages of my soul. Had not Edgerton fled, I could not have 
sustained it much longer. My passions would have hurled 
aside my judgment, and mocked that small policy under which 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


2ii8 

I acted. I felt that they were about to speak, and rejoiced that 
he fled. Had he remained, I should most probably have poured 
forth all my suspicion, all my hate ; dragged by violence from 
his lips the confession of his wrong, and from his heart the last 
atonement for it. 

At first I reproached myself that I had not done so. I ac- 
cused myself of tameness — tlie dishonorable tameness of sub- 
mitting to indignity — the last of all indignities — and of confer- 
ring calmly, even good-humoredly, with the wrong-doer. But 
cooler moments came. A brief interval sufficed — helped by 
the flood of tears which rushed, hot and scalding, from my eyes 
— to subdue the angry spirit. I remembered my pledges to 
the father ; my unspeakable obligations to him ; and when I 
again recollected that my convictions had not assailed the purity 
of my wife, and, at most, had questioned her affections only, my 
forbearance seemed justified. 

But could the matter rest where it was ? Impossible ! What 
was to be done? It was clear enough that the only thing that 
could be done, for the relief of all parties, was to be done by 
myself. Edgerton was suffering from a guilty pursuit. That 
pursuit, if still urged, might be successful, if not so at present. 
The constant drip of the water will wear away the stone ; and 
if my wife could submit to impertinent advances without de- 
claring them to her husband, the work of seduction was already 
half done. To listen is, in half the number of cases, to fall. I 
must save her ; I had not the courage to put her from me. Be- 
lieving that she was still safe, I resolved, through the excess 
of that love which was yet the predominant passion in my soul, 
in spite of all its contradictions, to keep her so, if human wit 
could avail, and human energy carry its desires into successful 
completion. 

To do this, there was but one process. That was flight. I 
must leave this city — this country. By doing so, I remove 
my wife from temptation, remove the temptation from the un- 
happy young man whom it is destroying ; and thus, though by 
a sacrifice of my own comforts and interests, repay the debt of 
gratitude to my benefactor in the only effective manner. It 
eaih'C for no small exercise of moral courage and forbearance— 
hu benevolence — to come to this conclusion. It must be 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


269 


undei’Sti od that my professional business was becoming particu- 
larly profitable. I was rising in my profession. My clients 
daily increased in number ; my acquaintance daily increased in 
value. Besides, I loved my birthplace — thrice-hallowed — the 
only region in my eyes — 

“ The spot most worthy loving 
Of all beneath the sky.” 

But the sacrifice was to be made ; and my imagination immedi- 
ately grew active for my compensation, by describing a wood- 
land home — a spot, remote from the crowd, where I should 
carry my household gods, and set them up for my exclusive 
and uninvaded worship. The whole world-wide West was open 
to me. A virgin land, rich in natural wealth and splendor, it 
held forth the prospect of a fair field and no favor to every new- 
comer. There it is not possible to keep in thraldom the fear- 
less heart and the active intellect. There, no petty circle of 
society can fetter the energies or enfeeble the endeavors. No 
mocking, stale conventionalities can usurp the place of natural 
laws, and put genius and talent into the accursed strait-jacket 
of routine ! Thither will I go. I remembered the late confer- 
ence with my friend Kingsley, and the whole course of my rea- 
soning on the subject of my removal was despatched in half an 
hour. “ I will go to Alabama.” 

Such was my resolution. I was the man to make sudden 
resolutions. This, however, reasoned upon with the utmost cir- 
ciunspection, seemed the very best that I could make. My 
wife, yet pure, was rescued from the danger that threatened 
her ; I was saved the necessity of taking a life so dear to my 
benefactor; and the unhappy young man himself — the victim 
to a blind passion — having no longer in his sight the tempta- 
tion which misled him, would be left free to return to better 
thoughts, and the accustomed habits of business and society. 1 
bad concluded upon my course in the brief interval which fol- 
lowed my interview with William Edgerton and my return 
home. 

The next day I saw his father. I communicated the assu- 
rance of the son, and renewed my own, that neither drunken- 
ness nor gaining was his vice. What it was that afflicted him 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I did not pretend to know, but I ascribed it to want of employ- 
ment ; a morbid, unenergetic temperament ; the fact that he was 
independent, and had no rough necessities to make him estimate 
the true nature and the objects of life ; and, at the close, quietly 
suggested that possibly there was some affair of the heart which 
contributed also to his suffering. I did not deny that his looks 
were wretched, but I stoutly assured the old man that his pa- 
rental fears exaggerated their wretchedness. We had much 
other talk on the subject. When we were about to separate for 
the day, I declared my own determination in this manner : — 

“ I have just decided on a step, Mr. Edgerton, which perhaps 
will somewhat contribute to the improvement of your son, by 
imposing some additional tasks upon him. I am about to em- 
igrate for the southwest.” 

“ You, Clifford ? Impossible ! What puts tliat into your 
head?” 

It was something difficult to furnish any good reason for such 
a movement. The only obvious reason spoke loudly for my 
remaining where I was. 

“ This is unaccountable,” said he. “ You are doing here as 
few young men have done before you. Your business increas- 
ing — your income already good — surely, Clifford, you have not 
thought upon the matter — you are not resolved.” 

I could plead little other than a truant disposition for my 
proceeding, but I soon convinced him that I was resolved. He 
seemed very much troubled; betrayed the most flattering con- 
cern in my interests ; and, renewing his argument for my stay, 
renewed also his warmest professions of service.” 

“ I had hoped,” he said, “ to have seen you and William, 
closely united, pursuing the one path equally and successfully 
together. I shall have no liopes of him if you leave us.” 

“ The probability is, sir, that he will do better with the whole 
responsibility of the office thrown upon him.” 

“No ! no !” said the old man, mournfully. “ I have no hope 
of him. There seems to me a curse upon wealth always — that 
follows and clings to it, and never leaves it, till it works out the 
ruin of all the proprietors. See the number of our young men, 
springing from nothing, that make everything out of it — rise to 
eminence and power — get fortune as if it were a mere sport to 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


271 


command and to secure it ; while, on the other hand, look at the 
heirs of our proud families. Profligate, reckless, abandoned j 
as if, reasoning from the supposed wealth of their parents, they 
fancied that there were no responsibilities of their own. I saw 
this danger from the beginning. I have striven to train up my 
son in the paths of duty and constant employment; and yet — 
but complaint is idle. The consciousness of having tried my 
best to have and make it otherwise is, nevertheless, a consola- 
tion. When do you think to go ?” 

“ In a week or two at farthest. I have but to rid myself of 
my impediments.” 

“ Always prompt ; but it is best. Once resolved, action is the 
moral law. Still, I wish I could delay you. I still think you 
are committing a great error. I can not understand it. You 
have established yourself. This is not easy anywhere. You 
will find it difficult in a new country, and among strangers.” 

“Nay, sir, more easy there than anywhere else. If a man 
has anything in him, strangers and a new country are the proper 
influences to bring it out. Friends and an old community keep 
it down, suppress, strangle it. This is the misfortune of your 
son. He has family, friends — resources which defeat all the 
operations of moral courage, and prevent independence. Ne- 
cessity is the moral lever. Do you forget the saying of one of 
the wise men ? ‘ If you wish your son to become a man, strip 
him naked and send him among strangers’ — in other words, 
throw him upon his own resources, and let him take care of 
himself. The not doing this is the source of that misfortune 
which only now you deplored as so commonly following the 
condition of the select and wealthy. I do not fear the struggle 
in a new country. It will end in my gaining my level, be that 
high or low. Nothing, in such a region, can keep a man from 
that.” 

“ Ay. but the roughness of those new countries — the absence 
of refinement — the absolute want of polish and delicacy.” 

“ The roughness will not offend me, if it is manl3^ The 
world is full of it. To be anything, a man must not have too 
nice a stomach. Such a stomach will make him recoil from 
sights of misery and misfortune ; and he who recoils from such 
sights, will be the last to relieve, to repair them. But while I 


272 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


admit the roughness and the want of polish among these fron- 
tier men, I deny the want of delicacy. Their habits are rude 
and simple, perhaps, but their tastes are pure and unaffected, 
and their hearts in the right place. They have strong affec- 
tions : and strong affections, properly balanced, are the true 
sources of the better sort of delicacy. All other is merely con- 
ventional, and consists of forms and phrases, which are very apt 
to keep us from the thing itself which they are intended to rep- 
resent. Give me these frank men and women of the frontier, 
while my own feelings are yet strong and earnest. Here, I am 
perpetually annoyed by the struggle to subdue within the social 
limits the expression of that nature which is for ever boiling 
up within me, and the utterance of which is neither more nor 
less than the heart’s utterance of the faith and hope which are 
in it. We are told of those nice preachers who ‘never mention 
hell to ears polite.’ They are the preachers of your highly- 
refined, sentimental society. Whatever hell may be, they are 
the very teachers that, by their mincing forbearance, conduct 
the poor soul that relies on them into its jaws. It is a sort of 
lie not to use the properest language to express our thoughts, 
but rather so to falsify our thoughts by a sort of lack-a-daisaical 
phraseology which deprives them of all their virility. A na- 
tion or community is in a bad way for truth, when there is a 
tacit understanding among their members to deal in the diminu- 
tives of a language, and forbear the calling of things by their 
right names. An Englishman, wishing to designate something 
which is graceful, pleasing, delicate, or fine, uses the word ‘ nice’ 
— more fitly applied to bon-bons or beefsteaks, according to the 
stomach of the speaker. An energetic form of speech is rated, 
in fashionable society, as particularly vulgar. In our larger 
American cities, where they have much pretension but little 
character, a leg must not be spoken of as such. You may say 
‘ limb,’ but not ‘ leg.’ The word ‘ woman’ — one of the sweetest 
in the language — is supposed to disparage the female to whom 
it is applied. She must be called a ‘lady,’ forsooth: and this 
word, originally intended to pacify an aristocratic vanity, lias 
become the ordinary appellative of every member of that gross 
family which, in the language of Shakspere, is only fit to ‘ suckle 
fools and chronicle small beer.’ I shall be more free, and feel 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


278 


more honest in that rough world of the west ; a region in which 
the dilettantism, such as it is, of our Atlantic cities, is always 
very prompt to sneer at and disparage ; but I look to see the 
day, even in our time, when that west shall be, not merely an 
empire herself, but the nursing mother of great empires. There 
shall be a genius born in that vast, wide world — a rough, un 
licked genius it may be, but one whose words shall fall upon 
the hills like thunder, and descend into the valleys like a set- 
tled, heavy rain, which shall irrigate them all with a new life. 
Perhaps — ” 

I need not pursue this. I throw it upon paper with no delib- 
eration. It streams from me like the rest. Its tone was some- 
what derived from those peculiar, sad feelings, and that pang- 
provoking course of thought, which it has been the purpose of 
this narrative to embody. In the expression of digressive but 
earnest notions like these, I could momentarily divert myself 
from deeper and more painful emotions. I had really gone 
through a great trial; I say a great trial — always assuming 
human indulgence for that disease of the blind heart which led 
me where I found myself, wdiich makes me what I am. I did 
not feel lightly the pang of parting with my birthplace. I did 
not esteem lightly the sacrifice of business, comfort, and distinc- 
tion which I was making ; and of that greater cause of suffering, 
supposed or real, of the falling off in my wife’s affection, the 
agony is already in part recorded. It may be permitted to mc; 
perhaps, under these circumstances — with the additional knowl- 
edge, which I yet suppressed, that these sacrifices were to be 
made, and these sufferings endured, partly that the son might be 
saved — to speak with some unreserved warmth of tone to the 
venerable and worthy sire. He little knew how much of my 
determination to remove from my country was due to my regard 
for him. I felt assured that, if I remained, two things must hap- 
pen. William Edgerton would persevere in his madness, and I 
should murder him in his perseverance ! I banished myself in 
regard for that old man, and in some measure to requite his 
benefactions, that I might be spared this necessity. 

When, the next day, I souglit William Edgerton himself, and 
declared my novel determination, he turned pale as dentil. I 
could see tliat his lips quivered. I watched him cloMly. He 

12 * 


274 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


was evidently racked by an emotion which was more obvious 
from the necessity he was under of suppressing it. With con 
siderable difficulty he ventured to ask my reasons for this 
strange step, and with averted countenance repeated those which 
his father had proffered against my doing so. I could see that 
he fain would have urged his suggestions more vehemently if 
he dared. But the conviction that his wishes were the fathers 
to his arguments was conclusive to render him careful that his 
expostulations should not put on a show of earnestness. I must 
do William Edgerton the justice to say that guilt was not his 
familiar. He could not play the part of the practised hypocrite. 
He had no powers of artifice. He could not wear the flowers 
upon his breast, having the volcano within it. Professionally, 
he could be no roue. He could seem no other than he -was. 
Conscious of guilt, which he had not the moral strength to coun- 
teract and overthrow, he had not, at the same time, the art 
necessary for its concealment. He could use no smooth, subtle 
blandishments. His cheek and eye would tell the story of his 
mind, though it strove to make a false presentment. I do him 
the further justice to believe that a great part of his misery 
arose from this consciousness of his doing wrong, rather than 
from the difficulties in the way of his success. I believe that, 
even were he successful in the prosecution of his illicit purposes, 
ho would not have looked or felt a jot less miserable. I felt, 
Avhile we conferred together, that my departure was perhaps 
the best measure for his relief. While I mused U2)on his char- 
actei* and condition, my anger yielded in part to commiseration. 
I remembered the morning-time of our boyhood— -when we 
stood up for conflict with our young enemies, side by side — 
obeyed the same rallying-cry, recognised the same objects, and 
were a sort of David and Jonathan to one another. Those 
days! — they soothed and softened me while I recalled them. 
My tone became less keen, my language less tinctured with 
sarcasm, when I thought of these things ; and I thought of our 
separation without thinking of its cause. 

“ I leave you, Edgerton, with one regret — not that we part, 
for life is full of partings, and the strong mind must bo recon- 
ciled with them, or it is nothing — but that I leave you so im 
like your former self. I wish I could do something for yo i ” 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


275 


I gave him my hand as as I spoke. He did not grasp — he 
rather shrunk from it. An uncontrollable hurst of feeling 
seemed suddenly to gush from him as he spoke ; — 

“Take no heed of me, Clifford — I am not worthy of your 
thought.” 

“ Ha ! What do you mean ?” 

He spoke hastily, in manifest discomfiture : — 

“ I am worthy of no man’s thought.” 

“ Pshaw ! you are a hypochondriac.” 

“ Would it were that ! — But you go ! — when 1” 

“ In a week, perhaps.” 

“So soon? So very soon? Do you — do you carry youi 
family with you at once 1” 

There was great effort to speak this significant inquiry. I 
perceived that. I perceived that his eyes were on the ground 
while it was made. The question was offensive to me. It had 
a strange and painful significance. It recalled the whole cause, 
the bitter cause of my resolve for exile ; and I could not con- 
trol the altered tones of my voice in answering, which I did 
with some causticity of feeling, which necessarily entered into 
my utterance. 

“Family, surely! My wife only! No great charge, I’m 
thinking, and her health needs an early change. Would you 
have me leave herl I have no other family, you know !” 

The dialogue, carried on with restraint before, was shortened 
by this ; and, after a few business remarks, which were neces- 
sary to our office concerns, he pleaded an engagement to get 
away. He left me with some soreness upon my mind, which 
formed its expression in a brief soliloquy. 

“ You would have the path made even freer than before, 
would you ? It does not content you, these long morning medi- 
tations — these pretended labors of the painting-room, the 
suspicious husband withdrawn, and the wife, neither scorning 
nor consenting, willing to believe in that devotion to the art 
which is properly a devotion to herself? These are not suffi. 
cient opportunities, eh ? There were more room for landscape, 
if this Othello were in Alabama — pitching his stakes, and 
building his log-cabin for the reception of that divinity, that 
finds the worship very sufficient where she is! We shall dis 


27G CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

appoint you, Mr. Edgerton ! — Ah! could I but know all! 
Could I be sure that she did love him ! Could I be sure that 
she did not ! That is the curse — that doubt ! — Will it remain 
so? No I no! Once removed — once in those forest regions, 
it can not be that she will repine for anything. She must love 
me then — she will feel anew the first fond passion. She will 
forget these passing fancies. They will pass ! She is young. 
The image will haunt her no longer -at least, it will no longer 
haunt me !^’ 

So I spoke, but I was not so sure of that last. The doubt 
did not trouble me, however. Sufficient for the day is the evil 
thereof. Eut I had’another test yet to try. I wished to see 
how Julia would receive the communication of my purpose. 
As yet she knew nothing of my contemplated departure. “ It 
will surprise her,” I thought to myself. “ In that surprise she 
will show how much our removal will distress her!” 

But when I made known to her my intention, the surprise 
was all my own. The communication did not seemed to distress 
her at all. Surprise her it did, but the surprise seemed a pleasant 
one. It spoke out in a sudden flashing of the eye, a gentle 
smiling of the mouth, which was equall}’’ unexpected and grate- 
ful to my heart. 

“ I am delighted with the idea!” she exclaimed, putting her 
arms about my neck. “ I think we shall be so happy there. I 
long to get away from this place.” 

“ Indeed ! But are you serious 1” 

“ To be sure.” 

“ I was apprehensive it might distress you.” 

“ Oh ! no ! no ! I have been dull and. tired here, for a long 
while ; and I thought, when you told me that Mr. Kingsley had 
gone to Alabama, how delightful it would be if we could go 
too.” 

“ But you never told me that.” 

« No.” 

“ Nor even looked it, Julia.” 

“ Surely not — I should have been loath to have you think, 
while your business was so prosperous, and you seemed so well 
satisfied here, that I had any discontent.” 

“ I satisfied.!” I said this rather to myself tlian her. 


MEDITATED EXILE. 


277 


“ Yes, were you not ? I had no reason to think otherwise. 
Nay, I feared you were too well satisfied, for I have seen so 
little of you of late. I’m sure I wished we were anywhere, so 
that you could find your home more to your liking.” 

“ And have such notions really filled your brain, Julia ?” 

*•' Really.” 

“And vou have found me a stranger — you have mis- 
sed me ■?” * 

“ Ah ! do you not know it, Edward 

“ You shall have no need to reproach me hereafter. We will 
go to Alabama, and live wholly for one another. I shall leave 
you in business time only, and hurry back as soon ns I can.” 

“ Ah, promise me that ?” 

“I do !” 

“We shall be so happy then. Then we shall take our old 
ramoles, Edward, though in new regions, and I will resume the 
pencil, if you wish it.” 

This was said timidly. 

“ To be sure I wish it. But why do you say ‘ resume’ ? Have 
you not been painting all along ?” 

“ No ! I have scarcely smeared canvass in the last two 
months.” 

“ But you have been sketching ?” 

“No!” 

“What employed you then in the studio 1 How have you 
passed your mornings ?” 

This inquiry was made abruptly, but it did not disturb her. 
Her auswer was strangely satisfactory. 

“ I have scarcely looked in upon the studio in all that time.” 

I longed to ask what Edgerton had done with himself, and 
whether he had been suffered to employ himself alone, in his 
morning visits, but my tongue faltered — I somehow dared not. 
Still, it was something to have her assurance that she had not 
found her attractions in that apartment in which my jealous 
fancy had assumed, that she took particular delight. She had 
spoken with the calmness of innocence, and I was too happy to 
believe her. I put my arms about her wai.'it. 

“Yes, v/e will renew the old liabits, for I suppose that busi- 
ness tluvre will be less pressing, less exactiriff, than I have found 


278 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


it here. We will take our long walks, Julia, and make up for 
lost time in new sketches. You have thought me a truant, Julia 
— neglectful hitherto ! Have you not?” 

Ah, Edward !” — Her eyes filled with tears, hut a smile, like 
a rainbow, made them bright. 

“Say, did you not ?” 

“ Do not be angry with me if I confess I thought you very 
much altered in some respects. T was fearful I had vexed you.” 

“You shall have no more reason to fear. We shall be the 
babes in the wood together. I am sure we shall be quite happy, 
left to ourselves. No doubts, no fears — nothing but love. And 
you are really willing to go ?” 

“ Willing ! I wish it ! I can get ready in a day.” 

“ You have but a week. But, have you no reluctance ? Is 
there nothing that you regret to leave? Speak freely, Julia. 
Your mother, your friends — would you not prefer to remiiv. 
with them ?” 

She placed her hands on my shoulders, laid her head close to 
my bosom and murmured — how softly, how sweetly — in the 
touching language of the Scripture damsel. 

“ Entreat me not to leave thee, or to refrain from following 
after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou 
lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy 
God my God !” 

I folded her.wdth tremulous but deep joy in my embrace; and 
in that sweet moment of peace, I wondered that I ever should 
have questioned the faith of such a woman 


BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY. 


279 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“AND STILL THE BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY.” 

Once more I had sunshine. The clouds seemed to depart as 
suddenly as they had risen, and that same rejoicing and rosy 
light which had encircled the brow of manhood at its dawn 
long shrouded, seemingly lost for ever, and swallowed up in 
darkness — came out as softly and quietly in the maturer day, 
as if its sweet serene had never known even momentary ob- 
scuration. 

Love, verily, is the purple light of youth. If it abides, bles- 
sing and blessed, with the unsophisticated heart, youth never 
leaves us. Gray brows make not age — the feeble step, the 
wrinkled visage, these indicate the progress of time, but not the 
passage of youth. Happy hearts keep us in perpetual spring, 
and the glow of childhood without its weaknesses is ours to the fi- 
nal limit of seventy. The sense of desolation, the pang of denial, 
the baffled hope, and the defrauded love, these constitute the 
only age that should ever give the heart a pang. I can fancy a 
good man advancing through all the mortal stages from seven- 
teen to seventy-five, and crowned by the sympathies of cor- 
responsive affections, simply going on from youth to youth, 
ending at last in youth’s perfect immortality ! 

The hope of this — not so much a hope as an instinct — is the 
faith • of our boyhood. The boy, as the father of the man, 
transmits this hope to riper years ; but if the experience of the 
day correspond not with the promise of the dawn, how rapidly 
old age comes upon us ! White hairs, lean cheeks, withered 
muscles, feeble steps, and that dull, dead feeling about the heart 

that utter abandonment of cheer — which would be despair 

were it not for a certain blunted sensibility — a sort of drowsy 


280 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


indifference lo all things that the day brings forth, which, as it 
takes from life the excitement of every passion, leaves it free 
from the sting of any. Yet, were not the tempest better than 
the calm ? Who Avonld not prefer to be driven before the 
treacherous hurricane of the blue gulf, than to linger midway 
on its shoreless waters, and behold their growing stagnation 
from day to day ? The apathy of the passions is the most terri- 
ble form in which age makes its approaches. 

With an earnest, sanguine temperament, such as mine, there 
is little danger of such apathy, The danger is not from leth- 
argy but madness. I had escaped this danger. It was sur- 
prising, even to myself, how suddenly my spirits had arisen 
from the pressure that had kept them down. In a moment, as 
it were, that mocking troop of fears and sorrows which envi- 
roned me, took their departure. It seemed that it was only 
necessary for me to know that I was about to lose the presence 
of William Edgerton to find this relief. 

And yet, how idle ! With an intense egdisme, such as mine, 
I should conjure up an Edgerton in the deepest valleys of our 
country. We have our gods and devils in our own hearts. 
The nature of the deities we worship depends upon our own. 
In a savage state, the Deity is savage, and expects bloody 
sacrifices ; with the progress of civilization his attributes incline 
to mercy. The advent of Jesus Christ indicated the advance 
of the Hebrews to a higher sense of the human nature. It was 
the advent of the popular principle, Avhich has been advancing 
steadily ever since and keeping due pace with the progress of 
Christian education. The people were rising at the expense of 
the despotism which had kept them down. It does not affect 
the truth of this to show that the polish of the Jewish nation 
was lessened at this period. Nay, rather proves it, since the 
diffusion of a truth or a power must always lessen its intensity. 
In teaching, for the first time, the doctrine of the soul's immor- 
tality, the Savior laid the foundation of popular rights, in the 
elevation of the common humanity — since he thus showed the 
equal importance, in the sight of God, of every soul that had 
ever taken shape beneath his hands. 

The demon which had vexed and tortured me was a demon 
of my own soliciting — of my own creation. But, I knew not 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OP JOY. 


281 


this. I congratulated myself on escaping from him. Blind 
fancy ! — I little knew the insidious pertinacity of this demon — 
this demon of the blind heart. I little knew the nature of his 
existence, and how much he drew his nutriment from the re- 
cesses of my own nature. He could spare, or seem to spare, 
the victim of whom he was so sure ; and by a sort of levity, in 
no ways unaccountable, since we see it in the play of cat with 
mouse, could indulge with temporary liberty, the poor captive 
of whom he was at any moment certain. I congratulated my- 
self on my escape ; but I was not so well pleased with the con- 
gratulations of others. I was doomed to endure those of my 
exemplary mother-in-law*, Mrs. Delaney. That woman had her 
devil — a w’^orse devil, though not more troublesome, I think, 
than mine. She said to me, when she heard of my purpose of 
removal : “ You are right to remove. It is only prudent. Pity 
you had not gone some months ago.” 

I read her meaning, wdiere her language w^as ambiguous, in 
her sharp, leering eyes — full of significance — an expression of 
mysterious intelligence, which, mingled with a slight, sinister 
smile upon her lips, for a moment, brought a renewal of all my 
tortures and suspicions. She saw the annoyance which I felt, 
.and strove to increase it. I know not — I will not repeat — the 
occasional innuendos which she allowed herself to utter in the 
brief space of a twenty minutes’ interview. It is enough to say 
that nothing could be more evident than her desire to vex me 
w'ith the w'orst pangs which a man can know, even though her 
success in the attempt w^as to be attained at the expense of her 
daughter’s peace of mind and reputation. I do not believe that 
she ever hinted to another, what she clearly enough insinuated 
as a cause of fear to me. Her purpose was to goad me to mad- 
ness, and in her witless malice, I do believe she was utterly un- 
conscious of the evil that might accrue to the child of her own 
womb from her base and cruel suggestions. I wished to get 
from her these suggestions in a more distinct form. I wished at 
the same time, to deprive her of the pleasure of seeing that I 
understood her. I restrained myself accordingly, though the 
vulture was then again at my vitals. 

“ What do you mean, Mrs. Delaney ? Why is it a pity that 
I hadn’t gone months ago ]” 


282 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ Oh ! that’s enough for me to know. I have my reasons.” 

“But, will you not suffer me to know them ? I am conscious 
of no evil that has arisen from my not going sooner.” 

“Indeed! Well, if you are not, I can only say you’re 
not so keen-sighted a lawyer as I thought you were. That’s 
all.” 

“ If you think I would have made out better, got more prac- 
tice. and made more money in Alabama, that, I must tell you, 
has been long since my own opinion.” 

“No I I don’t mean that — it has no regard to business and 
money-making — what I mean.” 

“ Ah I what can it have regard to ? You make me curious, 
Mrs. Delaney.” 

“ Well, that may be ; but I’m not going to satisfy your curios- 
ity. I thought you had seen enough for yourself. I’m sure 
you’re the only one that has not seen.” 

“ Upon my soul, Mrs. Delaney, you are quite a mystery.” 

“ Oh 1 am I ?” 

“ I can’t dive into such depths. I’m ignorant.” 

“■Tell those that know you no better. But you can’t blind me. 
I know that you know — and more than that, I can guess what’s 
carrying you to Alabama. It’s not law business, I know that.’' 

I was vexed enough, as may be supposed, at this malicious 
pertinacity, but I kept down my struggling gorge with a resolu- 
tion which I had been compelled often enough to exercise be-* 
fore ; and quietly ended the interview by taking my hat and 
departure, as I said : — 

“ You are certainly a very sagacious lady, Mrs. Delaney ; 
but I must leave you, and wait your own time to make these 
mysterious revelations. My respects to Mr. Delaney. Good 
morning.” 

“ Oh, good morning ; but let me tell you, Mr. Clifford, if you 
don’t see, it’s not because you can’t. Other people can see 
without trying.” 

The Jezabel! 

My preparations were soon completed. I worked with the 
spirit of enthusiasm — I had so many motives to be active; and, 
subordinate among these, but still important, I should get out of 
tl/ 3 reach of this very woman. I could not beat her myself, 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY. 


283 


but I wished her husband might do it, and not to anticipate my 
own story, he did so in less than three months after. He was 
the man too, to perform such a labor with unction and emphasis. 
A vigorous man with muscles like bolt-ropes, and limbs that 
would have been respectable in the days of Goliah. I met 
him on leaving the steps of Mrs. Delaney’s lodgings, and — 
thinking of the marital office I wished him to perform — I was 
rejoiced to discover that he was generously drunk — in the 
proper spirit for such deeds in the flesh. 

He seized my hand with quite a burst of enthusiasm, swore 
I was a likely fellow, and somehow he had a liking for me. 

“ Though, to be sure, my dear fellow, it’s not Mrs. Delaney 
that loves any bone in your skin. She’s a lady that, like most 
of the dear creatures, has a way of her own for thinking. She 
does her own thinking, and what can a woman know about 
such a business. It’s to please her that I sit by and say 
nothing ; and a wife must bo permitted some indulgence while 
the moon lasts, which the poets tell us, is made out of honey : 
but it’s never a long moon in these days, and a small cloud soon 
puts an end to it. Wait till that time, Mr. Clifibrd, and I’ll 
put her into a way of thinking, that’ll please you and myself 
much better.” 

I thanked him for his good opinion, and civilly wished him — 
as it was a matter which seemed to promise him so much satisfac- 
tion — that the duration of the honeymoon should be as short 
as possible. He thanked me afiectionately — grasped my hand 
with the squeeze of a blacksmith, and entreated that I should 
go back and take a drink of punch with him. As an earnest 
of what he could give me, he pulled a handful of lemons from 
his pocket which he had bought from a shop by the way. I 
need not say I expressed my gratitude, though I declined his 
invitation. I then told him I was about to remove to Alabama, 
and he immediately proposed to go along with me. I reminded 
him that he was just married, and it would be expected of him 
that he would see the honeymoon out. 

“ Ah, faith !” he replied, “ and there’s sense in what you say ; 
it must be done, I suppose ; but devil a bit, to my thinking, 
does any moon last a month in this climate ; and the first cloudy 
weather, d’ye see, and I’m after you.” 


284 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

It was difficult to escape from the generous embraces of my 
ardent father-in-law ; and the whole street witnessed them. 

That afternoon I spent in part with the Edgertons. I went 
soon after my own dinner and found the family at theirs, 
William Edgerton was present. The old man insisted that I 
should take a seat at the table and join them in a bottle of wine, 
which I did. It was a family, bearing apparently all the 
elements within itself of a happiness the most perfect and pro- 
found. Particularly an amiable family. Yet there was no in- 
sipidity. The father has already been made known ; the son 
should be by this time ; the mother was one of those strong- 
minded, simple women, whose mind may be expressed by its 
most striking characteristic — independence. She had that 
most obvious trait of aristocratic breeding, a quiet, indefinable, 
easy dignity — a seemingly natural quality, easy itself, that puts 
everybody at ease, and yet neither in itself nor in others suffer- 
ed the slightest approach to be made to unbecoming familiarity. 
A sensible, gentlewoman — literally gentle — yet so calm, so 
firm, you would liave supposed she had never known one emo- 
tion calculated to stir the sweet, glass-like placidity of her de- 
portment. 

And yet, amidst all this calm placidity, with an eye looking 
benevolence, and a considerateness that took note of your small- 
est want, she sustained the pangs of one yearning for her first 
born ; dissatisfied and disappointed in his career, and apprehen- 
sive for his fate. The family was no longer happy. The worm 
was busy in all their hearts. They treated me kindly, but it 
was obvious that they were suffering. A visible constraint 
chilled and baffled conversation ; and I could see the deepening 
anxieties which clouded the face of the mother, whenever her 
eye wandered in the direction of her son. This it did, in spite, I 
am convinced, of her endeavors to prevent it. 

I, too, could now look in the same quarter. My feelings were 
less bitter than they were, and William Edgerton shared in the 
change. I did not the less believe him to have done wrong, but, 
in the renewed conviction of my wife’s purity, I could foigivo 
him, and almost think he was sufficiently punished in enter 
taining affections which were without hope. Punished he was, 
whether by hopelessness or guilt, and punished terribly. I 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY. 


‘ 2.^5 

could see a difference for the Avorse in his appearance since I 
had last conferred Avith him. He A\'as haggard and spiritless to 
the last degree. He had fcAv Avords Avhilc aa'c sat at table, and 
these AN^ere spoken only after great effort; and, regarding him 
noAv Avith less temper than before, it seemed to me that his 
parents had not exaggerated the estimate Avhich they had form- 
ed of his miserable appearance. He looked A’cry much like 
one, Avhohad abandoned himself to nightly dissipation, and those 
excesses of mind and body,AAdnch sap from both the saving and ele- 
vating substance. I did not Avonder that the old man ascribed his 
condition to the bottle and the gaming-table. But that I kncAv 
better, such would most probably ha\"e been my oAvn conclusion. 

The conversation Avas not general — confined chiefly to Mr. 
Edgerton the elder and myself. Mrs. Edgerton remained aAvhilo 
after the cloth had been A\dthdraAvn, joining occasionally in Avdiat 
was said, and finally left us, though with still a lingering, and a 
last look toward her son, Avhich clearly told where her heart 
was. William Edgerton folloAved her, after a brief interval, 
and I saw no more of him, though I remained for more than an 
hour. He had said but little. It Avas Acitli some evident effort, 
that he had succeeded in uttering some general observation on 
the subject of the Alabama prairies — those beautiful “gardens 
of the desert,” 

' “For which the speech of England has no name." 

My remoA^al had been the leading to})ic of our discourse, and 
when I declared my intention to start on the very next day, 
and that the present Avas a fareAvell visit, the emotion of the 
son visibly increased. Soon after he left the room. When t 
Avas alone Avith the father, he took occasion to rencAv his offer of 
service, and, in such a manner, as to take from the offer its tone 
of serAuce. He seemed rather to ask a favor than to suggest one. 
Money he could spare — the repayment should be at my own 
leisure — and my bond AA’ould be preferable, he Acas pleased to 
say, to that of any one he kneAv. I thanked him Avith becom- 
ing feelings, though, for the present, I declined his assistance. I 
pledged myself, hoAvever, should circumstances make it neces- 
sary for me to seek a loan, to turn, in the first instance, to him. 
He had been emphatically my friend — the friend, sole, singular 


2SG CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

— nev(!r fltictiiating in his regards, and never stopping to calcu- 
late the exact measure of my deserts. T felt that I conld not 
ton much forbear in reference to the son, having in view the gen- 
erous friendship of the father. 

That day, and the night which followed it, was a long period 
with me. T had to see many acquaintances, and attend to a 
thousand small matters. I was on my feet the whole day, and 
even when the night came I had no rest. I was in the city till 
near eleven o’clock. When I got home I found that my wife 
liad done her share of the tasks. She had completed her prep- 
arations. Our luggage was all ready for removal. To her 1 
had assigned the labor of packing up her pictures, her materials 
for painting, her clothes, and such other matters as she desired to 
carry with us, to our new place of abode. The rest was to be 
sold by a friend after our departure, and the proceeds remitted. 
I knew I should need them all. Most of our baggage was to 
be sent by water. We travelled in a private carriage, and con- 
sequently, could take little. Julia, unlike most women, was 
willing to believe with me that impediments are the true name 
for much luggage ; and, with a most unfeminine habit, she could 
limit herself without reluctance to the merest necessities. We 
had no bandboxes, baskets, or extra bundles, to be stuffed here 
and there, filling holes and corners, and crowding every space, 
which should be yielded entirely to the limbs of the traveller. 
Though sensitive and delicate in a great degree, she had yet 
that masculine sense which teaches that, in the fewness of our 
wants lies our truest source of independence; and she could 
make herself ready for taking stage or steamboat in quite as 
short a time as myself. 

Her day’s work had exhausted her. She retired, and when 
I went up to the chamber, she already seemed to sleep. I could 
not. Fatigue, which had produced exhaustion, had baffled sleep. 
Extreme weariness becomes too much like a pain to yield readi- 
ly to repose. The moment that exercise benumbs the frame, 
makes the limbs ache, the difficulty increases of secunng slum- 
ber. I felt weary, but I was restless also. I felt that it would 
be vain for me to go to bed. Accordingly, I placed myself be- 
side the window, and looked out meditatingly upon the broad 
lake which lay before our dwelling. 


THE BITTER IN THE CUP OF JOY. 


287 


The night was very calm and beautiful. The waters from 
the lake were falling. Tide was going out, and the murmuring 
clack of a distant sawmill added a strange sweetness to the 
hour, and mingled harmoniously with the mysterious goings on 
of midnight. The starlight, not brilliant, was yet very soft and 
touching. Isolated and small clouds, like dismembered ravens’ 
wings, flitted lightly along the edge of the western horizon, 
shooting out at intervals brief, brilliant flashes of lightning. 
There was a flickering breeze that played Avith the shrubbery 
beneath my window, making .a slight stir that did not break 
the quiet of the scene, and gave a gTaceful movement to the 
slender stems as they waved to and fro beneath its pressure. 
A noble pride of India* rose directly before my eyes to the 
south — its branches stretching almost from within touch of the 
dwelling, over the fence of a neighbor. The whole scene Avas 
fairy-like. I should find it indescribable. It soothed my feel- 
ings. I had been the victim of a long and painful moral 
conflict. At length I had a glimmering of repose. Events, in 
the last feAv days — small events which, in themselves denoted 
nothing — had yet spoken peace to my feelings. My heart 
was m that dicamy state of languor, such as the body enjoys 
under tl’e gradually growing poAver of the anodyne, in Avhich 
the breaih of the r uinmer wind brings a language of luxury, and 
cue me mperi'c -l sights and sounds in nature minister to a ca- 
pacity of enioy. ?nt, Avhich is not the less intoxicating and 
SAvect because, il is ‘•ubdued. I mused upon my oavii heart, 
upon tne iiea/t which 1 so much loved and had so much dis- 
trusted — upon life, its strange Ausions, delusiA^e hopes, and the 
sweet efficacy of mere shadows in promoting one’s happiness 
at last. I’lien came, by natural degrees, the thought of that 
strange mysterious union of light and darkness — life and death 
— the shadows that Ave are ; the substances that Ave are yet to 
be. The future! - still it rose before me — but the darkness 
upon it alone shoAved me it was there. It did not offend me, 
hoAvever, for my heart was gloAving in a present starlight. It 
Avas the hour of hopes rather than of fears ; and in the mere 

* China tree ; the melia azedaracha of botanists. A tree pcculiai- to tlie 
south, of singular beauty, aud hold in l'.i;;b esrceni as a sliade-tree. 


288 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


prospect of transition to the new — such is the elastic nature of 
youth — I had agreed to forget every pang whether of idea or 
fact, which had vexed and tortured me in the perished past. 
My musings were all tender yet joyful — they partook of that 
“joy of grief” of which the bard of Fingal tells us. I felt a 
big tear gathering in my eye, I knew not wherefore. I felt my 
heart growing feeble, with the same delight which one would 
feel at suddenly recovering a great treasure which had been 
supposed for ever lost. I fancied that I had recovered my treas- 
ure, and T rose quietly, went to the bed where Julia lay 
sleeping peacefully, and kissed her pale but lovely cheeks. 
She started, but did not waken — a gentle sigh escaped her lips, 
and they murmured with some indistinct syllables which I failed 
to distinguish. At that moment the notes of a flute rose softly 
from the grove without. 


RENEWED AGONIES. 


289 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

RENEWED AGONIES. 

In tliat same moment my pangs were all renewed ; my repose of 
mind departed ; once more my heart was on fire, my spirit filled 
with vague doubts, grief, and commotion. The soft, sweet, pre- 
luding note of the player had touched a chord in my soul as 
utterly difierent from that Avhich it expressed, as could by any 
possibility be conceived. Heart and hope were instantly para- 
lyzed. Fear and its train, its haunting spectres of suspicion, 
took possession of the undefended citadel, and established guard 
upon its deserted outposts. I tottered to the window which I 
had left — I shrouded myself in the folds of the curtain, and as 
the strains rose, renewed and regular, I struggled to keep in my 
breath, listening eagerly, as if the complaining instrument could 
actually give utterance to the cruel mystery which I equally 
dreaded and desired to hear. 

The air which was played was such as I had never heard be- 
fore. Indeed, it could scarcely be called an air. It w'as the 
most capricious burden of mournfulness that had ever had its 
utterance from wo. Fancy a mute — one bereft of the divine 
faculty of speech, by human, not divine ministration. Fancy such 
a being endowed with the loftiest desires, moved by the acutest 
sensibilities, having already felt the pleasures of life, yet doom- 
ed to a denial of utterance, denied the language of complaint, 
and striving, struggling through the imperfect organs of his voice 
to give a name to the agony which works within him. That 
flute seemed to me to moan, and sob, and shiver, with some such 
painful mode of expression as would be permitted to the “ half 
made-up” mortal of whom I have spoken. Its broken tones, 


290 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


striving and struggling, almost rising at times into a shriek, seem- 
ed of all things to complain of its own voicelessness. 

And yet it had its melody — melody, to me, of the most vex- 
ing power. I should have called the strain a soliloquizing one. 
It certainly did not seem addressed to any ears. It wanted the 
continuance of apostrophe. It was capricious. Sometimes the 
burden fell off suddenly — broken — wholly interrupted — as if 
the vents had been all simultaneously and suddenly stopped. 
Anon, it rose again — soul-piercing if not loud — so abruptly, 
and with an utterance so utterly gone with wo, that you felt 
sure the poor heart must break with the next breath that came 
from the laboring and inefficient lungs. A “ dying fall” succeed- 
ing, seemed to afford temporary relief. It seemed as if tears 
must have fallen upon the instrument. Its language grew more 
methodical, more subdued, but not less touching. ^ I fancied, I 
felt, that, entering into the soul of the musician, I could give 
the very words to the sentiment which his instrument vainly 
strove to speak. What else but despair and utter self-abandon- 
ment was in that broken language ? The full heart over-burden- 
ed, breaking, to find a vent for the feelings which it had no 
longer power to contain. And yet, content to break, breaking 
with a melancholy sort of triumph which seemed to say — 

“ Such a death has its own sweetness ; love sanctifies the 
pang to its victim. It is a sort of martyrdom. He who loves 
truly, though he loves hopelessly, has not utterly loved in vain. 
The devoted heart finds a joy in the offering, though the Deity 
withholds his acceptance — though a sudden gust from heaven 
scatters abroad the rich fruits which the devotee has placed 
upon the despised and dishonored altar.” 

Such, I fancied, was the proud language of that melancholy 
music. Had I been other than I was — nay, had I listened to 
the burden under other circumstances and in another place — I 
should most probably have felt nothing but sympathy for the 
musician. As it was, I can not describe my feelings. All my 
racking doubts and miseries returned. The tone of triumph 
which the strain conveyed wrought upon me like an indignity. 
It seemed to denote that “foregone conclusion” which had been 
my cause of apprehension so long. Could it be then that Julia 
was rrally guilty ? Could she have given William Edgerton w' 


RENEWED AGONIES. 


291 


nine'll encouragement that triumph and exultation sliould still 
mingle with his farewell accents of despair? Ah! what fan- 
tasies preyofl upon my soul ; haunted the smallest movements 
of my mind ; conjured up its spectres, and gave bitterness to its 
every beverage! When I thouglit thus of Julia, I rose cau- 
tiously from my seat, approached the bed where she was lying, 
and gazed steadily, though with the wildest thrill of emotion, 
into her face. I verily believe had she not been sleeping at 
that moment — sleeping beyond question — she would have 
shared the fate of 

“ The gentle lady wedded to the Moor.*' 

I was in the mood for desperate things. 

But she slept — her cheek upon her arm — pale, but oh ! how 
beautiful ! and looking, oh ! how pure ! Her breathing was as 
tranquil and regular as that of an infant. I felt, while I gazed, 
that hers must be the purity of an infant also. I turned from 
beholding her, as the renewed notes of the musician once more 
ascended to the chamber. I again took my seat at the window 
and concealed myself behind the curtain. Here I had been 
concealed but a few moments, when I heard a rustling in the 
branches of the tree. Meanwhile, the music again ceased. I 
peered cautiously from behind the drapery, and fancied I be- 
held a dark object in the tree. It might be one of its branches, 
but I had not been struck by it before. I waited in breathless 
watchfulness. I saw it move. Its shape was that of a man. 
An exulting feeling of violence filled my breast. I rose stealth- 
ily, went into the dressing-room, and took up one of my pistols 
which lay on the toilet, and which I had that afternoon prepar- 
ed with a travelling charge. 

“ A brace of bullets,” I muttered to myself, “ will bring out 
another sort of music from this rare bird.” 

With this murderous purpose I concealed myself once more 
behind the curtain. The figure was sufficiently distinct for aim. 
The window was not more than twelve or fourteen paces from 
the tree. My nerves were now as steady as if I had been about 
to perform the most ordinary action. What thru prevented 
me ? What stayed my arm ? A single thought — a momentary 
recollection of an event which had taken place in my boyhood. 


292 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

What a providence that it should have occurred to me at that 
particular moment. The circumstance was this. 

When first sent to school I had been frequently taken at ad- 
vantage by a bigger boy. He had twice my strength — he took 
a strong dislike for me — perhaps, because I was unwilling to 
pay him that deference, which, as school-bully, he extorted from 
all otliers; — and he drubbed me accordingly, whenever an op- 
))ortunity occurred. My resistance was vain, and only stimulated 
him to increased brutality. One day he was lying upon the 
grass, beneath an oak which stood in the centre of a common 
on which we usually played. It happened that I drew near 
him unperceived. In approaching him I had no purpose of as- 
sault or violence. But the circumstance of my nearing him 
without being seen, suggested to my mind a sudden thought of 
revenging all my previous injuries. I felt bitterness and hate 
enough, had I possessed the strength, to have slain a dozen. I 
do not know that I had any design to slay him — to revenge 
myself was certainly my wish. Of death probably I had no idea. 
I looked about me for the agent of my vengeance. A pile of 
old brick Avhich had formed the foundations of a dwelling which 
had stood on the spot, and which had been burned, convenient- 
ly presented itself to my eye. I possessed myself of as large 
a fragment as my little hand could grnsp ; I secured a second as 
a dernier resort. Slowdy and slily — I may add, basely — I ap- 
proached him from behind, levelled the brick at his head, and 
saw the blood fly an instant after the contact. He was stunned 
by the blow, staggered up, however, Avith his eyes blinded by 
blood, and moA^ed after me like a drunken man. I receded 
sloAvly, lifting the remaining fragment which I held, intending, 
if he approached me, to repeat the blow. 

On a sudden he fell forward spraAvling. Then I thought him 
dead, and for the first time the dreadful consciousness of my 
crime in its true character, came to my mind. I can not de- 
scribe the agony of fear and horror Avhich filled my soul. He 
did not die, but he AV'as severely hurt. 

The recollection of that event — of Avhat I then sufiered — 
came to me involuntarily, as I Avas about to perform a second 
similar crime. I shuddered with the recollection of the past, 
aud shrunk, under the equal force of shame and conscience, 


RENEWED AGONIES. 


29B 


from the performance of a deed which, otherwise, 1 should prob- 
ably have committed in the brief time which I emplo3^ed for 
reflection. With a feeling of nervous horror I put the weapon 
aside, and sinking once more into the chair beside the window 
I bore with what fortitude I might, the renewal of the accursed 
but touching strains that vexed me. 

William Edgerton was a master of the flute. Often before, 
when we were the best friends, had I listened with delight, 
while he compelled it into discourse of music wild and some- 
what incoherent still : his present performance had now attained 
more continuousness and character. It was still mournful, but 
its sorrows rose and fell naturally, in compliance with the laws 
of art. I listened till I could listen no longer. Human pa- 
tience must have its limits. My wife still slept, I descended 
the stairs, opened the door with as much cautiousness as possi- 
ble, and prepared to grapple the musician and haul him into 
the light. 

It might be Edgerton or not. I was morally sure it was. 
B3" grappling vuth him, in such a situation, I should bring the 
affair to a final issue, though it might not be a murderous one. 
But of that I did not think ; I went forward to do somethin, • ; 
what that something waj to be, it was Eft for tim-* and chance 
to determine. But, suddenly, as I opened the door, the music 
ceased. Stepping into the yard, I heard the sound as of a fall- 
ing body. I naturally concluded that he had heard the open- 
ing of the door, and had suffered himself to drop down to the 
ground. I took for granted th.at he had descended on the oppo- 
site side of the j'ard and within the enclosure of a neighbor. 1 
leaped the fence, hurried to the tree, traversed the grounds, and 
found nobody. I returned rtached my own premises, and 
found the gate open which uoened upon the street. He had 
gone then in that direction. I turned into the street, posted 
Avith all speed to the corner of tlie souare. and met only the 
watchman. I asked, but he had seen nooody. The street was 
perfectly quiet. I returned, reascended to my chamber, found 
Julia now awake, and evidently much agitated. She had arisen 
in m3" absence, and was only about to re-enter the bed when I 
rushed up stairs. 

What was I to think ? What fear ? I was too conscious of 


294 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the suspicious nature of my thoughts and fears to suffer myself 
to ask any questions — and she, unhappily for both of us — she 
said nothing. Had she but spoken — had she but uttered the 
natural inquiry — “ Did you hear that strange music, husband 
— how much easier had been her extrication. But she was 
silent, and I was again let loose upon a wide sea of fears and 
doubts and damnable apprehensions. Once more, and now with 
a feeling which would not have made me forbear the use of any 
weapon, however deadly, I re-examined my own enclosure, but 
in vain. The horrible thought which possessed me was that he 
had even penetrated the dwelling while I was seeking him in 
the street ; that they had met; and how was I to know the de- 
gree of tenderness which had marked theSs meeting and given 
sweetness to their adiens i 


THE NEW HOME. 


CHAPTER XXXIX 

THE NEW HOME. 

W ITH these revived suspicions, half stiSed, btat stOl strug- 
gling in my bosom, did I commence my journey for the West 
My arrangements were comprehensive, but simple. I had pro- 
cured a second-hand travelling carriage and fine pair of horses 
from an acquaintance, at a very moderate price — a price which, 
I well knew, I should easily get for them again on reaching my 
place of destination. I was my own driver. I had no money to 
spare in purchasing what might be dispensed with. A single trunk 
contained all the necessary luggage of my wife and self. What 
was not absolutely needed by the wayside was sent on by water. 
This included my books, desks, Julia’s painting materials, and 
such other articles of the household, as were of cost and not 
bulky. I had previously written — as I may have stated al- 
ready — to my friend Kingsley. He was to procure me tem- 
porary lodgings in the town of M . I left much to his 

judgment and experience. He had once before been in Alabama 
and having interests there, had made himself familiar with every- 
thing in that region, necessary to be knowm. I put myself very 
much in his hands. I was too anxious to get away to urge any 
difficulties or make any troublesome requisitions. He was sim- 
ply to procure me an abiding-place in some private family — if 
possible in the suburbs — until I should be able to look about 
me. Economy was insisted upon. 1 had precious little money 
to spare, and even the spoils of my one night's visit to the gam- 
ing-house, were of no small help in sustaining re s iu my determi- 
nation to remove. I had not applied them previously. 1 con- 
fess to a feeling of sliamewhen I was compelled by necescity at last 


296 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


to use them. I had saved sometliiiig already from my profes- 
sional income, and I procured an advance on my furniture 
which was left for sale. I had calculated my expenses in re- 
moving and for one year’s residence in M , and was pre- 

pared, so far as poor human foresight may prepare itself, to keep 
want from our doors at least for that period. I trusted to good 
fortune, my own resources, and the notorious fact that, at that 

day, there were few able lawyers in M , to secure me an 

early and valuable practice. I canned with me letters from the 
best men in the community I had left. But I carried with me 
what was of more value than any letters, even though they be 
written in gold. I carried with me methodical habits and an 
energy of character which would maintain my resolution, and 
bear me through, to a safe conclusion, in any plan which I 
should contemplate. Industry and perseverance are the giants 
that cast down forests, drain swamps, level mountains, and create 
empires. I flattered myself that with these I had other and 
crowning qualities of intellect and culture. Perhaps it may 
be admitted that I had. But of what avail were all when 
coupled with the blind heart ? Enough — I must not anticipate. 

Filled with the exciting fancies engendered by the affair of 
the last night, I commenced my journey. The day was a fine 
one ; the sun cheery and bright without being oppressive ; and 
soon, gliding through the broad avenues, lined with noblest trees, 
which conducted us from the city to the forests, we had the 
pleasant carol of birds, and the lively chirp of hopping insects. 

I was always a lover of the woods ; green shady dells, and 
Avinding walks amidst crowding foliage. I cared little for mere 
flowers. A garden Avas neA^er a desire in my mind. I could be 
pleased to see and to smell, but I had no passion for its objects. 
But the trees — the big, A^enerable oaks, like patriarchs and 
priests ; the lofty and swaggering pines in their green helmets, 
like Avarriors of the feudal ages — these av ere forms that I could 
Avorship. I may say, I loved trees A\dth a real passion. Flow 
ers, and the taste for floAvers seemed to me ahvays petty ; but 
my instincts led me to behold a speaking and most impressive 
grandeur, in these old lords of the fnest, that had been the first, 
rising from the mighty moth.:; to attest the wondrous strength 
of her resources, and the teeming glories of her womb. 


THE NEW HOME. 


297 


Now, however, they did not fill ray soul with earnest Teach- 
ings, as had ever been the case before. They soothed me some- 
what, but the eyes of my mind were turned within. They 
looked only at the prostration of that miserable heart which 
was torturing itself with vague, wild doubts — guessing and con- 
jecturing with an agonizing pain, and without the least hope of 
profit. I could not drive from my thoughts, the vexing circum- 
stances; of the last night in the city ; and, for the first day of our 
journey, the hours moved with oppressive slowness. Objects 
which 1 had formerly loved to contemplate and always found 
sweet and refreshing, now gave me little pleasure and exacted 
little of my attention ; and I reached our stopping-place for the 
night with a sense of weariness and stupor which no mere 
fatigue of body, I well knew, could ever have occasioned. 

But this could not last. The elasticity of my nature, joined 
with the absence of that one person whom I had now learned 
to regard as my evil genius, soon enabled me to shake off the 
oppressive doubts and sadness which fettered and enfeebled me. 
Once more I began to behold the forests with all the eyes of 
former delight and affection, and I was conscious, after the prog- 
ress of a day or two, of periods in which I entirely lost sight 
of William Edgerton and all my suspicions in the sweet warmth 
of a fresh and pleasing contemplation. 

Something of this — nay, perhaps, the most' of it, was due to 
my wife herself. There was a change in her air and mannei 
which sensibly afiected my heart. I had treated her coldly at 
first, but she had not perceived it ; at least she had not suffered 
it to influence her conduct ; and I was equally pleased and sur- 
prised to behold in her language, looks, and deportment, a degree 
of life and buoyant animation, which reminded me of the very 
champagne exuberance and spirit of her youth. Her eyes 
flashed with a sense of freedom. Her voice sounded with the 
silvery clearness of one, who, long pent up in the limits of a 
dungeon, uses the first moment of escape into the forests to de- 
light himself with song. She seemed to have just thrown off 
a miserable burden ; — and, as for any grief — any sign of regret 
at leaving home and ties from which she would not willingly 
part — there was not the slightest appearance of any sueb feel- 
ing in her mind, look, or manner. Kindly , considerately, and 


298 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sweetly, and with a cheery smile in her eyes, and a springing 
vigor in the accents of her voice, she strove to enliven the way 
and to expel the gloom which she soon perceived had fastened 
itself upon my soul. Her own cares, if she had any, seemed to 
be very slight, and were utterly lost in mine. She spoke of our 
new abiding- place with a hearty confidence ; that it would be at 
once a home of prosperity and peace ; and, altogether convinced 
me for the time that the sacrifice must be comparatively very 
small, which she had made on leaving her birth-place. I very 
soon wondered that I should have fancied that William Edgerton 
was ever more to her than the friend of her husband. 

Our journey was slow but not tedious. Had our progress 
been only half so rapid, I should have been satisfied. It was 
love alone that my heart wanted. I craved for nothing but the 
just requital of my own passion. I had no complaint, no afflic- 
tion, when I could persuade myself that I had not thrown away 
my affections upon the ungrateful and undeserving. Assured 
now of the love of the beloved one, all the intense devotion of 
my soul was re-awakened ; and the deepest shadows of the 
forest, gloomy and desolate as they were, along the waste tracts 
of Georgia and Alabama — in that earlier day — enlivened by 
the satisfied spirit within, seemed no more than so many places 
of retreat, where security and peace, combining in behalf of 
Love, had given him an exclusive sovereignty. 

The rude countryman encountered us, and his face beamed 
with cheerfulness and good humor. The song of the black soft- 
ened the toils of labor, in the unfinished clearings ; and even 
the wild red man, shooting suddenly from out the sylvan covert, 
wore in his visage of habitual gi-avity, an air of resignation which 
took all harshness from his uncouth features. 

Such, under the tuition of well-satisfied hearts, was our 
mutual experience of the long journey which we had taken 
when we reached the end of it. Tliis we did in perfect safety. 
We found our friend, Kingsley, prepared for and awaiting us. 
He had procured us pleasant apartments in a neat cottage in 
the suburbs, where we were almost to ourselves. Our landlady 
was an ancient widow, without a family. She occupied but a 
single apartment in her house, and left the use of the rest to 
her lodgers. This was an arrangement with whi<‘,h I was par- 


THE NEW HOME. 


299 


ticularly gratified. Her cottage lay half way up on the side of 
a hill which was crowned with thick clumps of the noblest 
trees. Long, winding, narrow foot-paths, carried us picturesque- 
ly to the summit, where we had a bird’s-eye view of the town 
below, the river beyond — now darting out from the woods and 
now hiding securely beneath their umbrage — and fair, smooth, 
lawn-looking fields, which glowed at the proper season with the 
myriad green and white plumes of corn and cotton. At the 
foot of the cottage lay a delightful shrubbery, which almost 
covered it up from sight. It v/as altogether such a retreat as a 
hermit would desire. It reminded me somewhat of the lovely 
spot which we had left. A pleasant walk of a mile lay between 
it and the town where I proposed to practice, and this furnished 
a necessity for a certain degree of exercise, which, being un- 
avoidable, was of the most valuable kind. Altogether, Kingsley 
liad executed his commission with a taste and diligence which 
left me nothing to complain of. 

He was delighted at my coining. 

“ You are nearer to me now,” he said ; “ will be nearer at 
least when I get to Texas ; and I do not despair to see you 
making tracks after me when I go there.” 

“ But when go you ?” 

“Not soon. I am in some trouble here. I am pleading and 
being impleaded. You are just come in season to take up the 
cudgels for me. My landrights are disputed — my titles. You 
will have something of a lawsuit to begin upon at your earlie.st 
leisure.” 

“ Indeed ! but what’s the business ?” 

He gave me a statement of his affairs, placed his papers in 
my hands, and I found myself, on inspecting them, engaged in 
a controversy which was likely to give me the opportunity which 
I desired, of appearing soon in cases of equal intricacy and in- 
terest. Kingsley had some ten thousand dollars in land, the 
greater part of which was involved in questions of title and pre- 
emption, presenting some complex features, and likely to occa- 
sion bad blood among certain trespassers whom it became our 
first duty to oust if possible. I was associated with a spirited 
young lawyer of the place ; a youth of great natural talent, 
keen, quick intellect, much readiness of resource, yet little ex- 


300 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


perience and less reading. Like the great mass of our western 
men, however, he was a man to improve. He had no self-con- 
ceit — did not delude himself with the idea that he knew as 
much as his neighbor ; and, consequently, was pretty certain to 
increase in Avisdom with increase of years. He had few preju- 
dices to get over, and though he knew his strength, he also 
kncAv his weakness. He felt the instinct of natural talent, but 
he did not deceive himself on the subject of his deficient knowl- 
edge. He was willing to learn whenever he could find a teach- 
er. His name was Wharton. I took to him at once. He was 
an ardent, manly fellow — frank as a boy — could laugh and 
weep in the same hour, and yet was as firm in his principles, as 
if he could neither laugh nor weep. As an acquaintance he 
was an acquisition. 

Kingsley was delighted to see me, though someAvhat wonder- 
ing that I should give up the practice at home, where I was 
doing so well, to break ground in a region where I was utterly 
unknown. He gave me little trouble, however, in accounting 
to him for this movement. It was not difficult to persuade him 
— nay, he soon persuaded himself — that something of my pres- 
ent course was due to his own counsel and sugge.stion. To a 
man, like himself, to whom mere transition was pleasure, it 
needed no argument to show that my resolve Avas right. 

“ Who the d — 1,” he exclaimed, “ would like ahvays to be in 
the same place? Such a person is a mere cipher. We estab 
lish an intellectual superiority when Ave show ourselves superior 
to place. A genuine man is ahvays a citizen of the world. It 
is your vegetable man that can not go far Avithout grumbling, 
finding fault Avitli all he sees, talking of comforts and such small 
matters, and longing to get home again. Such a man puts me 
in mind of every member of the coav family that I ever kneAv. 
He is never at peace Avith himself or the Avorld, but always 
groaning and thrusting out his horns, until he can get back to 
his old range, and revel in hi.s native marsh, joint-grass, and 
cane-tops. Englishmen are very much of this breed. They 
go abroad, grumble as they go, and if they can not carry their 
cane-tops Avith them, afflict the Avhole Avorld Avith their lamen- 
tations. I take it for granted, Clifford, that this step to 
Alabama, is simply a step toward Texas. Your next will 


THE NEW HOME. 301 

be to New Orleans, and then, presto, we shall see you on the 
Sabine.” 

“ T hope not,” said my wife. “ You have got us into such 
comfortable quarters here, Mr. Kingsley, that I hope you will 
do nothing to tempt my husband farther. Go farther and fare 
worse, you know. Let well enough alone.” 

“Oh, I beseech you! — two proverbs at a time will be fatal 
to one or other of us. Perhaps both. But he can not fare worse 
by going to Texas.” 

“ He will do well enough here.” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ Recover your lands, for example, as a beginning.” 

“ Ah ! now you would bribe me. That is certainly a sugges- 
tion to make me keep my tongue, at least until the verdict 
is rendered. ’Till then, you know, I shall make no permanent 
remove myself.” 

“ But do you mean to go before the trial ?” I asked. 

“ Yes, for a couple of months or so. I should only get into 
some squabble with my opponents by remaining here ; and I 
♦may be preparing for all of us by going in season. I will look 
out for a township, Mrs. Clifford, on the edge of som.e beautiful 
prairie, and near some beautiful river. Your husband has a 
passion for water prospects, I can tell you, and would become 
a misanthrope without them. I am doubtful if he will be happy, 
indeed, if not within telescope distance from the sea itself. I 
don’t think that a river will altogether satisfy him.” 

“ Oh yes, this must and as she spoke she pointed to the 
fair glassy surface of the Alabama, as it stretched away, at in- 
tervals, in broad glimpses before our eyes. 

“Well, we shall see; but I will make my preparations, nev- 
ertheless, precisely as if he were not likely to be content. I 
have formed to myself a plan for all of you. I must make a 
dear little colony of our own in Texas. We shall have a nest 
of the sweetest little cottages, each with its neat little garden. 
In the centre we shall have a neat little playground for our 
neat little children ; on the hill a neat little church ; in the 
grove a neat little library ; on the river a neat little barge ; 
and over this neat little empire, you. Lady Clifford, shall be 
the neat little empress.” 


302 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ Dear me ! what a neat little establishment !” 

“ It shall be all that, I assure you ; and it shall have other 
advantages. You shall have a kingdom free from taxes and 
wars. There shall be no law-givers but yourself. We sliall 
have no elections except when we elect our wives, and the 
women shall be the only voters then. We shall have no cus- 
tomhouses — everything shall be free of duty; — we shall have 
no banks — everything shall be free of charge; — we shall have 
no parson, for shall we not be sinless V 

“ But what will you do with the neat little church V* 

“ Oh ! that we shall keep merely to remind us of what is 
necessary in less fortunate communities.” 

“ Very good ; but how, if you have no parsons, will you per- 
form the marriage ceremony ?” 

“ That shall be a natural operation of government. The 
voters having given their suffrages, you shall determine and 
declare with whom the majority lies, and give a certificate to 
that effect. The first choice will lie with the damsel having 
the highest number of votes; the second with the next; and 
so on to the end of the chapter ; and then elections are to take 
place annually among the unmarried — the ladies being the 
privileged class as I said before. You will keep a record of 
these events, the names of parties, and so forth ; and this record 
shall be proof, conclusive to conviction, against any party falling 
off from his or her duties.” 

“ Quite a system. I do not deny that our sex will have some 
new privileges by this arrangement.” 

“Unquestionably. But you have not heard all. We shall 
have no doctors, for we shall have no diseases in the beautiful 
world to which I shall cany you. We shall have no lawyers, 
for we shall have no wrangling.” 

“ Indeed ; but what is my husband to do then ?” 

“ Why, he is your husband. What should he do 1 He takes 
rank from you. You are queen, you know. He will have no 
need of law ” 

“ There’s reason in that ; but how will you prevent wrang- 
ling where there are men and women 

“ Oh, by giving the women their own way. The government 


THE NEW HOME. 


803 


is a despotism — you are queen — surely you will make no fur- 
ther objection to so admirable a system?” 

In good-humored chat like this, in which our landlady, Mrs. 
Porterfield — a lady who, though fully sixty-five years of age, 
was yet of a cheery and chatty disposition — took considerable 
part, our first evening passed away. Though fatigued, we sat 
up until a tolerably late hour, enlivened by the frank spirit of 
our friend, Kingsley, and inspired by the natural feeling of cu- 
riosity which our change of situation inspired. It was midnight 
before we solicited the aid of sleep. 


304 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE BLACK DOG ONCE MORE UPON THE SCENE. 

The next day was devoted to an examination of our premises 
and the neighborhood. The result of this examination was 
such as to render us better satisfied with the change that we had 
made. We were still young enough to be sensible to the love- 
liness of novelty. Everything wore that purple light which 
the eye of youth confers upon the object. And then there was 
repose. That harassing strife of the “ blind heart” was at rest. 
I had no more suspicions ; and my wife looked and spoke as if 
she had never had either doubts of me, or fears of herself, within 
her bosom. I was happiness itself, when, by the unreserved 
ease and gayety of her deportment she persuaded me that she 
suffered no regrets. I little fancied how much the change in 
my wife’s manner had arisen from the involuntary change which 
had been going on in mine. I now looked the love which I 
felt ; and she felt, in the improvement of my looks, the renewal 
of that fond passion which I had never ceased to feel, but which 
I had ouly too much ceased to show while suffering from the 
“ blind heart.” She resumed her old amusements with new 
industry. Our little parlor received constant accessions of new 
pictures. All our leisure was employed In ozpicring the sce- 
nery of the neighborhood ; and not a bit of forest, or patch of 
hill, or streak of rivulet or stream, to which the genius of art 
could lend loveliness, but she picked up, in these happy ram- 
bles, and worked into fitting places upon our cottage walls. 

Our good old hostess became attached to us. She virtually 
surrendered the management of the household to my wife. She 
was old and quite infirm ; and was frequently confined for days 


THE BLACK DOG ONCE MORE UPON THE SCENE. 305 


to lier chamber; which must have been a solitary place enough 
before our coming. My Avife became a companion to her in 
these periods of painful seclusion, and thus provided her with a 
luxury which had been long denied her. Under these circum- 
stances we had very much our own way. The old lady had 
few associates, and these were generally very worthy people. 
They soon became our associates also, and under the influence 
of better feelings than had gOA’^erned me for a long time past, I 
now found myself in a condition of comfort, cheerfulness, and 
peace, which I fancied I had forfeited for ever. 

Two weeks after our arrival, Kingsley took his departure for 
Texas, on a visit. He proposed to be absent two months. His 
object, as he had described it before, in some pleasant exagger- 
ations, Avas to select some favorable- spots for purchase, which 
should combine as nearly as possible the three prime requisites 
of salubrity, fertility, and beauty. His object Avas to speculate ; 
“ and this was to be done,” he said, “ at an early hour of the 
day.” “ The Spanish proverb,” he was wont to say, “ Avhich 
regulates the eating of oranges, is not a bad rule to govern a 
man in making his speculations. Speculations (oranges) are 
gold at morning, silver at noon, and lead at night. It is your 
Avise man,” he added, “ Avho buys and sells early ; your merely 
sensible man who does so at midday ; while your dunce, wait- 
ing for an increased appetite at evening, swallows nothing but 
lead.” 

I was ill some respects a very fortunate man. If I had been 
a wise one ! It has been seen that I was singularly successful 
in business at my first beginning in my native city. I had not 

been long in the town of M , before I began to congratulate 

myself on the prospect of like fortune attending me there. Tlie 
affairs of Kingsley brought me into contact Avith several men 
of business. My letters of introduction made me acquainted 
Avith many more ; not simply of the town, but of the neighbor- 
ing country. My ardency of temper Avas particularly suited to 
a frank, confiding people, such as are most of the southwestern 
men ; and one or two accidental circumstances yielded me pro- 
fessional occupation long before I expected to find it. I had 
occasion to appear in court at an early day, and succeeded in 
making a favorable impression upon my hearers. To be a good 


306 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


speaker, in the south and southwest, is to he everything. Elo- 
quence implies wisdom — at least all the wisdom which is sup- 
posed to be necessary in making lawyers and law-makers — a 
precious small modicum of a material by no means precious. I 
was supposed to have the gift of the gab in moderate perfection, 
and my hearers were indulgent. My name obtained circulation, 
and, in a short time, I discovered that, in a professional as well 
as personal point of view, I had no reason to regret the change 
of residence which T had made. Business began to flow in upon 
me. Applications reached me from adjoining counties, and 
though my fees, like the cases which I was employed in, 
were of moderate amount, they promised to be frequent, while 
my clients generally were very substantial persons. 

It will not need that I sliould dwell farther on these topics. 
It will be sufficient to show that, in worldly respects, I was as 
likely to prosper in my new as in my past abode. In social 
respects I had still more reason to be gratified. The days went 
by with me as smoothly as with Thalaba. My wife was all 
that I could wish. She was the very Julia whom I had mar- 
ried. Nay, she was something more — something better. Her 
health improved, and with it her spirits. She evidently had 
no regrets. A sigh never escaped her. Her content and cheer- 
fulness were wonderful. She had none of that vague, vain 
yearning which the feeble feel, called “ home-sickness.” She 
convinced me that I was her home — the only home that she 
desired. It was evident that she thought less of our ancient 
city than I did myself. I am sure that if either of us, at any 
moment, felt a desire to look upon it again, the person was my- 
self. I maintained a correspondence with the place — received 
the newspapers, groped over them with persevering industry — 
nay — missed not the advertisements, and was disappointed and 
a discontent on those days when the mail failed. My wife had 
no such appetite. She sometimes read the papers, but she ap- 
peared to have no curiosity ; and, with the exception of an oc- 
casional letter which she received from her mother, she had no 
intercourse whatever with her former home. 

All this was calculated to satisfy me. But this was not all. 
If gentleness, sweetness, cheerfulness, and a sleepless consider- 
ation of one’s wants and feelings, could convince any mortal of 


THE BLACK DOG ONCE MORE UPON THE SCENE. 807 


^lie love of another — I must have been sati&fied. We resumed 
most of the habits which began with our marriage, but which 
had been so long discontinued. We rose with the sun, and 
went abroad after his example. Like him we rose to the hill- 
tops, and then ' escended into the valleys. We grew familiar 
with the deepest shades of wood and forest while the dewdrops 
were yet beading the bosoms of the wild flowers; and we fol- 
lowed the meandering course of the Alabama, long before the 
smoking steamer vexed it with her flashing paddles. My pro- 
fessional toils from breakfast to dinner-time — for this interval 
I studiously gave to my office, even if I had little to do there 
— occasioned the only interregnum which I knew in the posi- 
tive pleasures which I enjoyed. In the afternoon our enjoy- 
ments were renewed. Our cettage was so sweetly secluded, 
that we did not need to go far in order to find the Elysian grove 
which we desired. At the top of our hill we were surrounded 
by a natural temple of proud pines — guarding the spot from 
any but that sort of divine and religious light which streams 
through the painted windows of the ancient cathedral. The 
gay glances of the sun came gliding through the foliage in 
drops, and lay upon the grass in little pale, fanciful gleams, 
most like eyes of fairies peeping upward from its velvety tufts. 
Here we read together from the poets — sometimes Julia sung, 
even while sketching. Not unfrequently, Mrs. Porterfield came 
with us, and, at such times, our business was to detect distant 
glimpses of barge, or steamboat, as they successively darted 
into sight, along such of the glittering patches of the Alabama 
as were revealed to us in its downward progress through the 
woods. 

Our e\"enings were such as hallow and make the luxury of 
cottage life — evenings yielded up to cheerfulness, to content 
and harmony. Between music, and poetry, and painting, my 
heart was subdued to the sweetest refinements of love. With- 
out the immorality, we had the very atmosphere of a Sybarite 
indulgence. I Avas enfeebled by the excess of sweets ; and 
the happiness which I felt expressed itself in signs. These de- 
noted my presentiments. My apprehensions were my sole 
cause of doubt and sorrow. How could such enjoyments last ? 
Was it possible, with any, that they should last? Was it 


308 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


possible tliat they should last with me'? I should have been 
mad to think it. 

But, in the sweet delirium which their possession inspired, I 
almost forgot the past. The soiu of man is the most elastic 
thing in nature. Those haras^ug tortures of the heart which I 
had been suffering for months — those weary days of exhaust- 
ing doubt — those long nights of torturing suspicion — the shame 
and the fear, the sting of jealousy, and the suffering — I had 
almost forgotten in the absorbing pleasures of my new exist- 
ence. If I remembered them it was only to smile ; if I thought 
of William Edgerton it was only to pity; — and, as for Julia, 
deep was the crimson shadow upon my cheek, whenever the re- 
proachful memory reminded me of the tortures which I had in- 
flicted upon her gentle heart while laboring under the tortures 
of my own — when T thought of the unmanly espionage which 
I had maintained over conduct which I now felt to be irre- 
proachable. 

But, just at the moment when I thus thought and felt — when 
I no longer suffered and no longer inflicted pain — when my 
wife was not only virtue in my sight, but love, and beauty, and 
grace, and meekness — all that was good and all that was dear 
besides; — when my sky was without a cloud, and the evening 
star shone through the blue sky upon the green tops of our cot- 
tage trees, with the serene lustre of a May-divinity — just then 
a thunderbolt fell upon my dwelling, and blackened the scene 
for ever. 

I had now been three months a resident in M , and never 

had I been more happy — never less apprehensive on the score 
of my happiness — when I received a letter from my venerable 
friend and patron, the father of William Edgerton. 

“ My son,” he wrote, “ is no better than when you left us. 
We have every reason to believe him worse. He has a cough, 
he is very thin, and there is a flushed spot upon his cheek which 
seems to his mother and myself the indubitable sign of vital 
decay. His frame is very feeble, and our physician advises 
travel. Under this counsel he set off with a favorite servant on 
Wednesday of last week. He will make easy stages through 
Tennessee to the Ohio, will descend into IMississippi, and return 
home by way of Alabama. He contemplates paying you a 


THE BLACK DOG ONCE MORE UPON THE SCENE. 309 


brief visit. I need not say, dear Clifford, how grateful I shall 
be for any kindness which you can show to my poor boy. His 
mother particularly invokes it. I should not have deemed it 
necessary to say so much, but would have preferred leaving it 
to William to make his own communication, were it not that she 
so particularly desires it. It may be well to add, that on one 
subject we are both very much relieved. We now have reason 
to believe that our apprehensions on the score of his morals 
were without foundation. It is our present belief that he neither 
gamed nor drank. This is a consolation, dear Clifford, though 
it brings us no nigher to our wish. It is something to believe 
that the object of our love is not worthless ; though it adds to 
the pang that we should feel in the event of losing him. Our 
parting would be less easy. For my own part, I have little 
hope that his journey will do him any material benefit. It may 
prolong his days, but can not, I fear, have any more decided in- 
fluence upon his disease. His mother, however, is more san- 
guine, and it is perhaps well that she should be so. I know 
that when William reaches your neighborhood, you will make 
it as cheerful and pleasant to him as possible. The talent of 
your young and sweet wife — her endowments in painting and 
music — have always been a great solace to him. His tastes 
you know are very much like hers. I trust she will exercise 
them, and be happy in ministering to the comfort of one, who 
will not, I fear, trespass very long upon any earthly ministry. 
My dear Clifford, I know that you will do your utmost in be- 
hfidf of your earliest friend, and I will waste no^more words in 
unnecessary solicitation.” 

Such was the important portion of the letter. In an instant, 
as I read it, I saw, with the instinct of jealousy, the annihila- 
tion of all my hopes of happiness. All my dreams were in the 
dust — all my fancies scattered — my schemes and temples 
overthrown. Bitter was the pang I felt on reading this letter. 
It said mor.. — much more — in the very language of solicita- 
tion, *vhich tkio good old father professed to believe unnecessary. 
He poured forth the language of a father^s grief and entreaty. 
I felt for the venerable man — the true friend — in spite of my 
own miserable apprehensions. I felt for him, but what could I 
do ? What would he have me do ? I. had no house in which 


810 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


to receive liis son. He would lodge, perhaps, for a time, in the 
community. It could not be supposed that he would remain 
long. The letter of the father spoke only of a brief visit. 
Our neighborhood had no repute, as a place of resort, for con- 
sumptive patients. I consoled myself with the reflection that 
William Edgerton could, on no pretence, linger more than a 
week or two among us. I will treat him kindly — give him the 
freedom of the house while he remains. A dying man, if so he 
be, must have reached a due sense of his situation, and will not 
be likely to trespass upon the rights of another. His passions 
must be subdued by this time. Ah ! but will not his condition 
be more likely to inspire sympathy ? 

The fiend of the blind heart prompted that last suggestion. 
It was the only one that I remembered. When I returned 
home that day to dinner, I mentioned, as if casually, the letter 
I had received, and the contents. My eye narrowly watched 
that of my wife while I spoke. Hers sunk beneath my glance 
Her cheeks were suddenly flushed — then, as suddenly, grew 
pale, and I observed, that, though she appeared to eat, but few 
morsels of food were carried into her mouth that day. She 
soon left the table, and, pleading headache declined joining me 
in our usual evening rambles. 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 


311 


CHAPTER XLI. 

TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 

Thus, then, I was once more at sea, rudderless — not yet 
companionless — perhaps, soon to he so. My relapse was as 
sudden as my thought. It seemed as if every past misery of 
doubt and suspicion were at once revived within me. All my 
day-dreams vanished in an instant, William Edgerton would 
again behold — would again seek — my wife. They must meet; 
I owed that to the father ; and, whatever the condition of the 
son might be, it was evident that his feelings toward her must 
be the same as ever; else, why should he seek her outl — why 
pursue our footsteps and haunt my peace ? I must receive him 
and treat him kindly for the father’s sake ; but that one bitter 
thought, that he was pursuing us, the deadly enemy to my peace 
— and now, evidently, a wilful one — gave venom to the bitter 
feeling with which I had so long regarded his attentions. 

It was evident, too, whatever may have been its occasion, 
that the knowledge of his coming awakened strange emotions 
in the bosom of my wife. That blush — that sudden paleness 
of the cheek — what was their language? I fain would have 
struggled against the conviction, that it denoted a guilty con- 
sciousness of the past — a guilty feeling of the future. But the 
mocking demon of the blind heart forced the assurance upon 
me. What was to be done ? Ah ! what ? This was the ques- 
tion, and there was no variation in the reply which my jealous 
spirit made. There was but one refuge. I must pursue the 
same insidious policy as before. I must resort to the same subter- 
fuge, meet them with the same smiles, disguise once more the true 
features of my soul ; seem to shut my eyes, and afford them the 


312 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


same opportunities as before, in the torturing hope (fear ?) that 
I should finally detect them in some guilty folly which would 
be sufficient to justify the final punishment. I must put on the 
aspect of indifference, the better to pursue the vocation of 
the spy. 

Base necessity, but still, as I then fancied, a necessity not 
the less. Ah I was I not a thing to he pitied? Was ever any 
case more pitiable than mine ? I ask not this question with 
any hope that an answer may he found to justify my conduct. 
It is not the less pitiable — nay, it is more — that no such an- 
swer can be found. My folly is not the less a thing of pity, 
because it is also a thing of scorn. That was the pity — and 
yet, I was most severely tried. Deep were my sufferings ! 
Strong was that demon within me — I care not how engendered, 
whether by the fault and folly of others, or by my own — still 
it was strong. If I was guilty — base, blind — was I not also 
suffering ? Never did I inflict on the bosom of Julia Clifford, 
so deep a pang as I daily — nay, hourly, inflicted upon my own. 
She was a victim, true — but was I less so ! But she was in- 
nocently a victim, therefore, less a sufferer, whatever her suffer- 
ings, than me ! Let none condemn or curse me, till they have 
asked what curse I have already undergone. I live! — they 
will say. Ah 1 me ! They must ask what is the value of life, 
not to themselves, but to a crushed, a blasted heart, like mine I 
But I hurry forward with my pangs rather than my story. 

Instantly, a barrier seemed to rise up between Julia Clifford 
and myself. She had her consciousness, evidently, no less than 
I. What was thcct consciousness ? Ah I could I have guessed 
thatt there would have been no barrier — all might have been 
peace again. But a destiny was at work which forbade it all ; 
and we strove ignorantly with one another and against ourselves. 
There was a barrier between us, which our mutual blindness of 
heart made daily thicker, and higher, and less liable to over- 
throw. A coldness overspread my manner. I made it a sort 
of shelter. The guise of indifference is one of the most conve- 
nient for hiding other and darker feelings. Already we ceased 
to ramble by river and through wood. Already the pencil was 
discarded. We could no longer enjoy the things which so lately 
made us happy, because we no longer entertained the same con- 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 


313 


fidence in one another. Without this confidence there is no 
communion sweet. And all this had been the work of that let- 
ter. The name of William Edgerton had done it all — his name 
and threatened visit ! 

But — and I read the letter again and again — it would be 
some time before he might be expected. The route, as laid 
down for him by his father, was a protracted one. “ Through 
Georgia, Tennessee, Mississippi, then homeward, by way of 
Alabama.” “ He can not be here in less than six weeks. He 
must travel slowly. He must make frequent rests.” 

And there was a further thought — a hope— which, though 
it filled my mind, I did not venture to express in words. “He 
may perish on his route : if he be so feeble, it is by no means 
improbable !” 

At all events, I had six weeks’ respite — perhaps more. Such 
was my small consolation then. But even this was false. In 
less than a week from that time, William Edgerton stood at the 
door of our cottage ! 

Instead of going into Tennessee, he had jhot straight forward, 
through Georgia, into Alabama. 

Though surprised, I was not confounded by his presence. 
Under the policy which I had resolved upon, I received him 
with the usual professions of kindness, and a manner as nearly 
warm and natural as the exercise of habitual art could make it. 
He certainly did look very miserable. His features wore an 
expression of uniform despair. They brightened up, when he 
beheld my wife, as the cloud brightens suddenly beneath the 
moonlight. His eyes were riveted upon her. He was almost 
speechless, but he advanced and took her hand, which I observed 
was scarcely extended to him. He sat the evening with us, 
and a chilly, dull evening it was. He himself spoke little — 
my wife less ; and the conversation, such as it was, was carried 
on chiefly between old Mrs. Porterfield and myself. But I 
could see that Edgerton employed his eyes in a manner which 
fully compensated for the silence of his tongue. They were 
seldom withdrawn from the quarter of the apartment in which 
my wife sat. When withdrawn, it was but for an instant, and 
they soon again reverted to the spot. He had certainly ac- 
quired a degree of boldness, which, in this respect, he had not 

14 


S14 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


before possessed. I keenly analyzed his looks without provo- 
king his attention. It was not possible for me to mistake the unre- 
served admiration that his glance expressed. There was a strange 
spiritual expression in his eyes, which was painful to the spec- 
tator. It was that fearful sign which the soul invariably makes 
when it begins tc exert itself at the expense of the shell which 
contains it. It was the sign of death already written. But he 
might linger for months. His cough did not seem to me op- 
pressive. The flush was not so obvious upon his cheek. Per- 
haps, looking through the medium of my peculiar feelings, his 
condition was not half so apparent as his designs. At least, 1 
felt my sympathies in his behalf — small as they were before — 
become feebler with every moment of his stay that night. 

“ Edgerton does not appear to me to look so badly,” I said to 
Julia, after his departure for the evening. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered ; “ he looks very pale and 
miserable.” 

“ Quite interesting !” I added, with a smile which might have 
been a sneer. 

“Painfully so. He can not last very long — his cough is 
very troublesome.” 

“ Indeed ! I scarcely heard it. He is certainly a very fine- 
looking fellow still, consumption or no consumption.” 

She was silent. 

“ A very graceful fellow : very generous and with accom- 
plishments such f'’ are possessed by few. I have often envied 
him his person and accomplishments.” 

“ You ?” she exclaimed, with something like an expression of 
incredulity. 

“Yes!— that is to say, when I was a youth, and when 1 
thought more of commending myself to your eyes, than of any- 
thing besides.” 

“ Ah !” she replied with an assuring smile, “ you never need- 
ed qualities other than your own to commend yourself to me.” 

“ Pleasant hypocrite I And yet, Julia, would you not be 
better pleased if I could draw and color, and talk landscape 
with you by the hour 

“ No 1 I have never thought of your doing anything of the 
kind.” 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 


815 


“ Like begets liking.” 

“ It may be, but I do not think so. I do not think we love 
people so much for what they can do, as for what they are.” 

“Ah, Julia, that is a great mistake. It is a law in moials, 
that the qualities of men should depend upon their performances. 
What a man is, results from what he does, and so we judge of 
persons. Edgerton is a noble fellow ; his tastes are very fine. 
I suspect he can form as correct an opinion of a fine picture aa 
any one — perhaps, paint it as finely.” 

She was silent. 

“ Do you not think so, Julia ?” 

“ I think he paints very well for an amateur.” 

“ He is certainly a man of exquisite taste in most matters of 
taste and elegance. I have always thought his manners partic- 
ularly easy and dignified. His carriage is at once manly and 
graceful ; and his dancing — do you not think he dances with 
admirable flexibility ?” 

“ Really, Edward, I can scarcely regard dancing as a manly 
accomplishment. It is necessary that a gentleman should dance, 
perhaps, but it appears to me that he should do so simply be- 
cause it is necessary ; and to pass through the measure without 
ostentation or offence should be his simple object.” 

“ These are not usually the opinions of ladies, Julia.” 

“ They are mine, however.” 

“You are not sure. You will think otherwise to-morrcw. 
At all events, I think there can be little doubt that Edgerton 
is one of the best dancers in the circle we have left ; he has the 
happiest taste in painting and poetry ; and a more noble gentle- 
man and true friend does not exist anywhere. I know not to 
whom I could more freely confide life, wealth, and honor, than 
to him.” 

She was silent. I fancied there was something like distress 
apparent in her countenance. I continued : — 

“ There is one thing, Julia, about which I am not altogether 
satisfied.” 

“ Ah !” with much anxiety ; “ what is that ?” 

“ I owe so much to his father, that, in his present condition, 
I fancy we ought to receive him in our house. We should not 


316 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

let him go among strangers, exposed to the noise and neglect 
of a hotel.” 

There was some abruptness in her answer : — 

“ I do not see how you can bring him here. You forget that 
we are mere lodgers ourselves ; indebted for our accommodation 
to the kindness of a lady upon whom we should have no right 
to press other lodgers. Such an arrangement would crowd the 
nouse, and make all parties uncomfortable. Besides, I suppose 

Mr. Edgerton will scarcely remain long enough in M to 

make it of much importance where he lodges, and when he finds 
the tavern uncomfortable he will take his departure.” 

“ But should he get sick at the tavern ?” 

” Such a chance would follow him wherever he went. That 
is the risk which every man incurs when he goes abroad. He 
has a servant with him — no doubt a favorite servant.” 

“ Should he get sick, Julia, even a favorite servant will not 
be enough. It will be our duty to make other provision for 
him. I owe his father much ; the old man evidently expects 
much from me by his last letter. I owe the sou much. He 
has been a true friend to me. I must do for him as if he were 
a brother, and should he get sick, Julia, you must be his nurse.” 

“ Impossible, Mr. Clifford !” she replied, with unwonted en- 
ergy, while a deep, dark flush settled over her otherwise 
placid features, which were now not merely discomposed but 
ruffled. “ It is impossible that I should be what you require. 
Suffer me, in this case, to determine my duties for myself. Do 
for your ^riend what you think proper. You can provide a 
nurse, and secure by money, the best attendance in the town. 
I do not think that I can do better service than a hundred others 
whom you may procure ; and you will permit me to say, with- 
out seeking to displease you, that I will not attempt it.” 

I was not displeased at what she said, but it was not my pol- 
icy to admit this. With an air almost of indignation, I replied : 
“ And you would leave my friend to perish ]” 

“ I trust he will not perish — I sincerely trust he will continue 
in health while he remains here. I implore you, dear husband, 
to make no requisition such as this. I can not serve your friend 
in this capacity. I pray that he may not need it” 

“ But should he ?” 


TRIAL — THE WOMAN GROWS STRONG. 


817 


** I can not serve him.” 

** Julia, you are a cold-hearted woman — you do not love me.” 

“ Oold-hearted, Edward, cold-hearted 1 Not love you, Ed- 
ward? — Oh, surely, you can not mean it. No! no! you can 
not !” 

She threw herself into my arms, clasped me fondly in hers, 
and the warm tears from her eyes gushed into my bosom. 

“ Love me, love my dog — at least my friend !” I exclaimed, 
in austere accents, but without repulsing her. I could not re- 
pulse her. I had not strength to put her from me. The em- 
brace was too dear ; and the energy with which she rejected a 
suggestion in which I proposed only to try and test her, madd 
her doubly dear at that moment to my bosom. Alas ! how, in 
the attempt to torture others, do we torture ourselves ! If ^ 
afflicted Julia in this scene, I am very sure that my own suffer- 
ings were more intense. One thing alone would have made 
them so. The one quality of evil, of the bad spirit which min- 
gled in with my feelings, and did not trouble hers. But, just 
then I did not think her innocent altogether. I still had my 
doubts that her resistance to my wishes was simply meant to 
conceal that tendency in her own, the exposure of which she 
had naturally every reason to dread. The demon of the blind 
heart, though baffled for awhile, was still busy. Alas ! he was 
not always to be baffled. 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Sl^ 


CHAPTER XLII. 

CROSS rDR]?03E8. 

WsEKS passed and still William Edgerton was a resident of 
M — , and a constant guest at our little cottage. He had, in 
this time, effectually broken up the harmony and banished the 
peace which had previously prevailed there. The unhappy young 
man pursued the same insane course of conduct which had been 
productive of so much bitterness and trouble to us all before ; 
and, under the influence of my evil demon, I adopted the same 
blind policy which had already been so fruitful of misery to my- 
self and wife. I gave them constant opportunities together. 
I found my associates, and pursued my pastimes — pastimes in- 
deed — away from home. Poetry and song were given up — 
we no longer wandered by the river-side, and upon the green 
heights of our sacred hill. My evenings were consumed in 
dreary rambles, alone with my own evil thoughts, and miserable 
fancies, or consumed with yellow-eyed watching, from porch or 
tree, upon those privacies of the suspected lovers, in which I 
had so shamefully indulged before. I felt the baseness of this 
vocation, but I had not the strength to give it up. I know 
there is no extenuation for it. I know that it was base ! base ! 
base ! It is a point of conscience with me, not only to declare 
the truth, hut to call things by the truest and most characteristic 
names. Let mo do my understanding the justice to say that, 
even when I practised the meanness, I was not ignorant — not 
insensible of its character. It was the strength only — the 
courage to do right, and to forbear the wrong — in which I was 
deficient. It was the blind heart, not the unknowing head to 
which the shame was attributable, though the pang fell not un- 
equally upon heart and head. 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


819 


Meanwhile, Kingsley returned from Texas. He became my 
principal companion. We strolled together in my leisure hours 
by day. We sat and smoked together in his chamber by night. 
My blind fortitude may be estimated, when the reader is told 
that Kingsley professed to find me a very agreeable companion. 
He complimented me on my liveliness, my wit, my humor, and 
what not — and this, too, when I was all the while meditating, 
with the acutest feeling of apprehension, upon the very last 
wrong which the spirit of man is found willing to endure ; — 
when I believed that the ruin of my house was at hand ; when 
I believed that the ruin of my heart and hope had already taken 
place; — and when, hungering only for the necessary degree of 
proof which justice required before conviction, I was laying my 
gins and snares with the view to detecting the offenders, and 
consummating the last terrible but necessary work of vengeance ! 
But Kingsley did not confine himself altogether to the language 
of compliment. 

“ Good fellow and good companion as you are, Clifford — and 
loath as I should be to give up these pleasant evenings, still 
I think you very wrong in one respect. You neglect your 
wife.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! what an idea ! You are not serious 

“ As a judge.” 

“ Psha ! She does not miss me.” 

“Perhaps not,” he answered gravely — “but for your own 
sake if not for hers, it seems to me you should pursue a more 
domestic course.” 

“ What mean you ?” 

“ You leave your wife too much to herself! — nay — let me be 
frank — not too much to herself, for there would be little danger 
in that, but too much with that fellow Edgerton.” 

“ What ? You would not have me jealous, Kingsley 

“No I Only prudent.” 

“ You dislike Edgerton, Kingsley.” 

“ I do ! I frankly confess it. I think he wants manliness of 
character, and such a man always lacks sincerity. But I do 
not speak of him. I should utter the same opinion with respect 
to any other man, in similar circumstances. A wife is a depen- 
dent creature — apt to be weak ! — If young, she is susceptible 


320 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


— equally susceptible to the attentions of another and to the 
neglect of her husband. I do not say that such is the case 
with your wife. Far from it. I esteem her very much as a re- 
markable woman. But women were intended to be dependents. 
Most of them are governed by sensibilities rather than by 
principles. Impulse leads them and misleads. The wife finds 
herself neglected by the very man who, in particular, owes her 
duty. She finds herself entertained, served, watched, tended 
with sleepless solicitude, by another ; one, not wanting either in 
personal charms and accomplishments, and having similar tastes 
and talents. What should be the result of this ? Will she not 
become indifferent where she finds indifference — devoted 
where she finds devotion 1 A cunning fellow, like Edgerton, 
may, under these circumstances, rob a man of his wife’s affec- 
tions. Mark me, I do not say that he will do anything positive- 
ly dishonorable, at least in the world’s acceptation of the term. 
I do not intimate — I would not willingly believe — that she 
would submit to anything of the sort. I speak of the affections, not 
of the virtues. There is shame to the man in his wife’s dishonor ; 
but the misfortune of losing her affections is neither more nor 
less than the suffering without the shame. Look to it. I do 
not wish to prejudice your mind against Edgerton. Far from 
it. I have forborne to speak hitherto because I knew that my 
own mind was prejudiced against him. Even now I say nothing 
against him. What I say has reference to your conduct only. 
I do not think Edgerton a bad man. I think him a weak one. 
Weak as a woman — governed, like her, by impulse rather than 
by principle — easily led away — incapable of resisting where 
his affections are concerned — repenting soon, and sinning, in 
the same way, as fast as he repents. He is weak, very weak 

— washy-weak — he wants stamina, and, wanting that, wants 
principle !” 

“ Strange enough, if you should be right ! How do you 
reconcile this opinion with his refusal to lend you money to game 
upon ? He was governed in that by principle.” 

“Not a bit of it! He was governed by habit. He knew 
nothing of gambling — had heard his father always preaching 
against it — it was not a temptation with him. His tastes were 
of another sort. He could not be tried in that way. The very 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


321 


fact that he was susceptible, in particular, to the charms of 
female society, saved him from the passion for gaming, as it 
would save him from the passion for drink. But the very tastes 
that saved him from one passion make him particularly suscepti- 
ble to another. He can stand the temptation of play, but not 
that of women. Let him be tried Iherey and he falls ! his prin- 
ciple would not save him — would not be worth a straw to a 
drowning man.” 

“ You underrate — undervalue Edgerton. He has always 
been a true, generous friend of mine.” 

“ Be it so ! with that I have nothing to do. But friendship 
has its limits which it can not pass. Were Edgerton truly your 
friend, he would advise you as I have done. Nay, a proper 
sense of friendship and of delicacy would have kept him from 
paying that degree of attention to the wife which must be an 
hourly commentary on the neglect of her husband. I confess 
to you it was this very fact that made me resolve to speak to 
you.” 

“ I thank you, my dear fellow, but I have nothing to fear. 
Poor Edgerton is dying — music and painting are his solace — 
they minister to his most active tastes. As for Julia, she is im- 
maculate.” 

“I distrust neither; but you should' not throw away your 
pearl, because you think it can not suffer stain.” 

“ I do not throw it away.” 

“ You do not sufficiently cherish it.” 

“What would you have me do — wear it constantly in my 
bosom ?” 

“ No ! not exactly that ; but at least wear nothing else there 
BO frequently or so closely as that.” 

“ I do not. I fancy I am a very good husband. You shall 
not put me out of humor, Kingsley, either with my wife or my- 
self. You shall not make me jealous. I am no Othello — I 
have no visitations of the moon.” 

And I laughed — laughed while speaking thus — though the 
keen pang was writhing at that moment like a burning arrow 
through my brain. 

“ I have no wish to make you jealous, Clifford, and I very 
much admire your superiority and strength. I congratulate you 

14 * 


822 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


on your singular freedom from this unhappy passion. But you 
may become too confident. You may lose your wife’s affections 
by your neglect, when you might not lose them by treachery.” 

“ You are grown a croaker, Kingsley, and I will leave you. 
I will go home. I will show you what a good husband I am, 
or can become.” 

“ That’s right ; but smoke another cigar before you go.” 

“ There it is !” I exclaimed, laughingly. “ You blow hot and 
cold. You would have me go and stay.” 

“ Take the cigar, at least, and smoke it as you go. My ad- 
vice is good, and that it is honest you may infer from my re- 
luctance to part with you. I will see you at the office at nine 
in the morning. There is some prospect of a compromise with 
Jeffords about the tract in Dallas, and he is to meet Wharton 
and myself at your law-shop to-morrow. It is important to 
make an arrangement with Jeffords — his example will be felt 
by Brownsell and Gribbon. We may escape a long-winded law- 
suit, after all, to your great discomfiture and my gain. But 
you do not hear me !” 

“ Yes, yes, every word — you spoke of Jeffords, and Wharton, 
and Gibbon — yes, I heard you.” 

“ Now I know that you did not hear me — not understanding- 
ly, at least. I should not be surprised if I have made you jeal- 
ous. You look wild, mon ami 

“ Jealous, indeed ! what nonsense!” and I prepared to de- 
part when I had thus spoken. 

“ Well, at nine you must meet us at the office. My business 
must not suffer because you are jealous.” 

“ Come, no more of that, Kingsley !” 

“ By heavens, you are touched.” 

He laughed merrily. I laughed also, but with a choking ef- 
fort which almost cost me a convulsion as I left the tavern. The 
sport of Kingsley was my death. What he had said previously 
sunk deep into my soul. Not rightly — not as it should have 
sunk — showing me the folly of my own course without assu- 
ming, as I did, the inevitable wilfuln^ss of the course of others ; 
but actually confirming me in my fears — nay, making them 
grow hideous as things and substantive convictions. It seemed 
to me, from what Kingsley said, that I was already dishonored 


CROSS PURPOSES. 


323 


— that the world already knew my shame; and that he, as my 
friend, had only employed an ambiguous language to soften the 
sting and the shock which his revelations must necessarily oc- 
casion. With this new notion, which occurred to me after leav- 
ing the house, I instantly returned to it. It required a strong 
effort to seem deliberate in what I spoke. 

“ Kingsley,” I said, perhaps I did not pay sufficient heed 
to your observations. Do you mean to convey to my mind th ; 
idea that people think Edgerton too familiar with my wife 1 
Do you mean to say that such a notion is abroad ? That thor(> 
is anything wrong 1” 

“ By no means.” 

“ Ah ! then there is nothing in it. I see no reason for sus- 
picion. I am not a jealous man; but it becomes necer-sary 
when one’s neighbors find occasion to look into one’s business, 
to look a little into it one’s self.” 

“ One must not wait for that,” said Kingsley ; “ but where is 
your cigar 1” 

The question confused me. I had dropped it in the agitation 
of my feelings, without being conscious of its loss. 

Take another,” said he, with a smile, and let your cares 
end in smoke as you wend homeward. My most profound 
thoughts come from my cigar. To that I look for my philoso- 
phy, my friendship, my love — almost my religion. A cigar is 
a brain-comforter, verily. You should smoke more, Clifford. 
You will grow better, wiser — cooler y 

“I take your cigar and counsel together,” was my reply. 
“ The one shall reconcile me to the other. Bon repos And 
so I left him. 

I was not likely to have hon repos myself. I was troubled. 
Kingsley suspects me of being jealous. Such an idea was very 
mortifying. This is another weakness of the suspicious nature. 
It loathes above all things to be suspected of jealousy. I hur- 
ried home, vexed with my want of coolness — doubly vexed at 
the belief that other eyes than my own w^ere witnesses of the 
attentions of Edgerton to my wife. 

I stopped at the entrance of our cottage. He was there as 
usual. Mrs. Porterfield was not present. The candle was 
burning dimly. He at upon the sofa. Julia was seated upon 


8?^: CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

i chair at a little distance. Her features wore an expression of 
dxcsedin^ gravity. His were pale and sad, but his eyes burnt 
i.i'.h an eager intensity that betrayed the passionate feeling in 
his heart. Thus they sat — she looking partly upon the floor 
—he looking at her. I observed them for more than ten min- 
ites, and in all that time I do not believe they exchanged two 
ententes. 

Sorely,’^ I thought, “ this must be a singularly sufficing pas- 
sion which can enjoy itself in this manner without the help of 
language.’* 

Of course, this reflection increased the strength of my suspi- 
cions. I became impatient, and entered the cottage. The eyes 
of Julia seemed to brighten at my appearance, but they were 
ai.sj full of sadness. Edgerton soon after rose and took his de- 
parture. I believe, if I had stayed away till midnight, he would 
have lingered until that time ; but I also believe that if I had 
returned two hours before, he would have gone as soon. His 
passion for the wife seemed to produce an antipathy to the hus- 
band, quite as naturally as that which grew up in my bosom in 
legard to him. When he was gone, my wife approached me, 
almost vehemently exclaiming — 

“ Why, why do you leave me thus, Clifford 1 Surely you 
can not love me.” 

“ Indeed I do ; but I was with Kingsley. I had business, 
and did not suppose you would miss me.” 

“ Why suppose otherwise, Edward ? I do miss you. I beg 
that you will not leave me thus again.” 

“ What do you mean 1 You are singularly earnest, Julia. 
What has happened? What has offended you? Was not 
Edgerton with you all the evening?” 

My questions, coupled with my manner, which had been 
somewhat excited, seemed to alarm her. She replied hur- 
riedly : — 

“ Nothing has happened ! nothing has offended me ! But I 
feel that you should not leave me tWs. It does not look welL 
It looks as if you did not love me.” 

“ Ah ! but when you ^now that I do !” 

“I do not know it. Oh, show me that you do, Edward. 
Stay with me as you did at first — when we first came here — 


CROSS PURPOSES. 326 

when we were first married. Then we were so — so hap- 
py!” 

“ You would not say that you are not happy now 
“lam not! I do not see you as I wish — when I wish! 
You leave me so often — leave me to strangers, and seem so in- 
different. Oh ! Edward, do not let me think that you care for 
me no longer.” 

“ Strangers ! Why, how you talk ! — Good old Mrs. Porter- 
field seems to me like my own grandmother, and Edgerton has 

been my friend ” 

Did I really hear her say the single word, 

“ Friend !” and with such an accent ! The sound was a very 
slight one — it may have been my fancy only ; — and she turned 
away a moment after. What could it mean ? I was bewil- 
dered. I followed her to the chamber. I endeavored to renew 
the subject in such a manner as not to offend her suspicions, 
but she seemed to have taken the alarm. She answered me in 
monosyllables only, and without satisfying the curiosity which 
that single word, doubtfully uttered, had so singularly awakened. 

“Only love me — love me, Edward, and keep with me, and 
I will not complain. But if you leave me — if you neglect me 
— I am desolate !” 


S26 


CONFESSION. OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 

There was something very unaccountable in all this. I say 
unaccountable, with the distinct understanding that it was unac- 
countable only to that obtuse condition of mind which is pro- 
duced by the demon of the blind heart. My difficulties of judg- 
ing were only temporary, however. The sinister spirit made 
his whisper conclusive in the end. 

“ This vehemence,” it suggested, “ which is so unwonted with 
her, is evidently unnatural. It is affected for an object. What 
is that object ? It is the’ ordinary one with persons in the wrong, 
who always affect one extreme of feeling when they would con- 
ceal another. She fears that you will suspect that she is very 
well satisfied in your absence ; accordingly she strives t: con- 
vince you that she was never so dissatisfied. Of course you 
can not believe that a man so well endowed as Edgerton, so 
graceful, having such fine tastes and accomplishments, can prove 
other than an agreeable companion! What then -ffiould be 
your belief?” 

There was a devilish ingenuity in this sort of perversion. It 
had its effect. I believed it ; and believing it, revolted, with a 
feeling of hate and horror, at the supposed loathsome hypocrisy 
of that fond embrace, and those earnest pleadings, which, in the 
moment of their first display, had seemed so precious to my soul. . 
In the morning, when I was setting forth from home, she put 
her arm on my shoulder - 

“ Come home soon, Edward, and let us go together on the 
hill. Let nobody know. Surely we shall be company enough 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 327 

for each other. I will sketch you a view of the river while 
you read Wordsworth to me.” 

“Now,” whispered my demon in my ears, “that is ingenious. 
Let nobody know ; as if, having a friend in the neighborhood — 
on a visit — he sick and in bad spirits — you should propose to 
yourself a pleasure trip of any kind without inviting him to par- 
take of it ? She knows that to be out of the question, and that 
you must ask Edgerton if you resolve to go yourself.” 

Such was the artful suggestion of my familiar. My resolve 

— still recognising the cruel policy by which I had been so long 
governed — was instantly taken. This was to invite Edgerton 
and Kingsley both. 

“ I will give them every opportunity. While Kingsley and 
myself ramble together, well leave this devoted pair to their own 
cogitations, taking care, however, to see what comes of them.” 

I promised Julia to be home in season, but said nothing of 
my intention to ask the gentlemen. She thanked me with a 
look and smile, which, had I not seen all things through eyes 
of the most jaundiced green, would have seemed to me that of 
an angel, expressive only of the truest love. 

“Ah! could I but believe I” was the bitter self-murmur of 
my soul, as I left the threshold. 

On my way through the town I stopped at the postoffice to 
get letters, and received one from Mrs. Delaney — late Clifford 
— my wife’s exemplary mother, addressed to Julia. I then 
proceeded to Edgerton’s lodgings. He was not yet up, and I 
saw him in his chamber. His flute lay upon the toilet. Seeing 
it, I recalled, with all its original vexing bitterness, the scene 
which took place the night previous to my departure from my 
late home. And when I looked on Edgerton — saw with what 
effort he spoke, and how timidly he expressed himself — how 
reluctant were his eyes to meet the gaze of mine — his guilt 
seemed equally fresh and unequivocal. I marked him out, in- 
voluntarily, as my victim. I felt assured, even while convey- 
ing to him the complimentary invitation which I bore, that my 
hand was commissioned to do the work of death upon his limbs. 
Strange and fascinating conviction I But I did not contemplate 
this necessity with any pleasure. No ! I would have prayed 

— I did pray — that the task might be spared me. If I thought 


328 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


of it at all, it was as the agent of a necessity which I could not 
countervail. The fates had me in their keeping. I was the 
blind instrument obeying the inflexible will, against which 

“ Reluctant nature strives in vain.” 

I felt then, most truly, though I deceived myself, that I had no 
power, though every disposition, to save and to spare. I con- 
veyed my invitation as a message from my wife. 

“ Edgerton, my wife has planned a little ramble for this after- 
noon. She wishes to show you some of the beauties of land- 
scape in our new abode. She commissions me to ask you to 
join us.” 

“ Ah ! did she he demanded eagerly, with a slight empha- 
sis on the last word. 

“ Ay, did she ! Will you come 1” 

“ Certainly — with pleasure !” 

He need not have said so much. The pleasure spoke in his 
bright eyes — in the tremulous hurry of his utterance. I turned 
away from him, lest I should betray the angry feeling which 
disturbed me. He did not seek to arrest my departure. He 
had few words. It was sufficiently evident that he shrunk from 
my glance and trembled in my presence. How far otherwise, 
in the days of our mutual innocence — in our days of boyhood 
— when his face seepfied clear like that of a pure, perfect star, 
shining out in the blue serene of night, unconscious of a cloud. 

Kingsley was already at my office when I reached it, and 
soon after came Mr. Wharton, followed by two of our opponents. 
We were engaged with them the better part of the morning. 
When the business hours were consumed, our transactions re- 
mained unfinished, and another meeting was appointed for the 
ensuing day. I invited Wharton as well as Kingsley to join 
us in our afternoon rambles, which they both promised to do. 
I went home something sooner to make preparations, and only 
recollected, on seeing Julia, that I had thrown the letter from 
her mother, with other papers, into my desk. When I told her 
of the letter, her countenance changed to a death-like paleness 
which instantly attracted my notice. 

“ What is the matter-— are you sick, Julia?” 

“No ! nothing. But the letter — where is it?” 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 


329 


“ I threw it on my table, or in my desk, with other papers, 
to have them out of the way ; and hurrying home sooner than 
usual, forgot to bring it with me. I suppose there’s nothing in 
it of any importance 

“ No, nothing, I suppose,” she answered faintly. 

I told her what I had done with respect to our guests. 

“ I am very sorry,” she answered, “ that you have done so. 
I do not feel like company, and wished to have you all to my- 
self.” 

“ Oh, selfish ; but of this I will believe moderately ! As for 
company, with the exception of Wharton, they are old friends ; 
and it would not do to take a pleasure ramble, with poor Edger- 
ton here, and not make him a party.” 

There was an earnest intensity of gaze, almost amounting to 
a painful stare, in Julia’s eyes, as I said these words. She re- 
ally seemed distressed. 

“ But really, Edward, our pleasure ramble is not such a one 
as would make it a duty to invite your friends. How difficult 
it seems for you to understand me. Could not we two stroll a 
piece into the woods without having witnesses?” 

“ Why, is that all ? Why then should you have made a for- 
mal appointment for such a purpose ? Could we not have gone 
as before — without premeditation?” 

The question puzzled her. She looked anxious. Had she 
answered with sincerity — with truth — and could I have be- 
lieved her to have been sincere, how easy would it have been 
to have settled our difficulties. Had she said — “I really wish 
to avoid Mr. Edgerton, whose presence annoys me — who will 
be sure to come — when you are sure to be gone — and whom I 
have particular reasons to wish not to meet — not to see.” 

This, which might be the truth, she did not dare to speak. 
She had her reasons for her apprehension. This, which was 
reasonable enough, I could not conjecture ; for the demon of the 
blind heart was too busy in suggesting other conjectures. It 
was evident enough that she had secret motives for her course, 
which she did not venture to reveal to me ; and nothing could 
be more natural, in the diseased state of my mind, than that I 
should give the worst colorings to these motives in the conjee- 


830 


CO-NPESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


tures which I made upon them. We were destined to play at 
cross- purposes much longer, and with more serious issues. 

Our friends came, and we set forth in the pleasant part of 
the afternoon. We ascended our hill, and resting awhile upon 
the summit, surveyed the prospect from that position. Then I 
conducted the party through some of our woodland walks, which 
Julia and myself had explored together. But I soon gave up 
the part of cicerone to Wharton, who was to the manor horny 
He was a native of the neighborhood, boasted that he knew 
every “ bosky dell of this wild wood” and certainly conducted 
us to glimpses of prettiest heights, and groves, and far vistas, 
where the light seemed to glide before us in an embodied gray 
form, that stole away, and peeped backward upon us from long 
allies of the darkest and most solemn-sighted pines. 

‘ But there is a finer spot just below us,” he said — ” a creek 
that is like no other that I have ever met with in the neighbor- 
hood. It is formed by the Alabama — is as deep in some places, 
and so narrow, at times, that a spry lad can easily leap across 
it.” 

“ Is it far 

“No — a mile only.” 

“ But your wife may be fatigued, OliflPord V' was the sugges 
tion of Kingsley. She certainly looked so ; but I answered for 
her, and insisted otherwise. I met her glance as I spoke, but, 
though she looked dissatisfaction, her lips expressed none. I 
could easily conjecture that she felt none. She was walking 
with Edgerton — and while all eyes watched the scenery, he 
watched her alone. I hurried forward with Kingsley, but he 
immediately fell behind, loitered on very slowly, and left Whar- 
ton and myself to proceed together. I could comprehend the 
meaning of this. My demon made his suggestion. 

“ Kingsley suspects them — he sees what you are unwilling 
to see — he is not so willing to leave them together.” 

We reached the stream, and wandered along its banks. It 
had some unusual characteristics. It was sometimes a creek, 
deep and narrow, but clear ; a few steps farther and it became 
what, in the speech of the country, is called a branch ; shallow, 
purling soft over a sand-bed, limpid yellow, and with a playful 
prattle that put one in mind of the songs of thoughtless chil- 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 


221 


dren, humming idly as they go. The shrubbery along its 5<i*^0C 
seemed to follow its changes. Where the bluffs were high, 4 
foliage was dense and the trees large. The places where its 
waters shallowed, were only dotted with shrub trees and wild 
vines, which sometimes clambered across the stream and wedded 
the opposing branches, in bonds as hard to break as those of 
matrimony. The waters were sinuous, and therefore slow. 
They seemed only to glide along, like some glittering serpent, 
who trails at leisure his silvery garments through the woods, 
quietly and slow, as if he had no sort of apprehension. 

When we had reached a higher spot of bluff than the rest, 
Wharton, who was an active rather than an athletic man, chal- 
lenged me to follow him. He made the leap having little space 
to spare. I had not done such a thing for some years. But my 
boyhood had been one of daring. The school in which I had 
grown up had given me bodily hardihood and elasticity ; at all 
events I could not brook defiance in such a matter, and, with 
moderate effort, succeeded in making a longer stride. I looked 
back at this moment and saw Julia, still closely attended by 
Edgerton, just about emerging into view from a thick copse that 
skirted the foot of a small hill over which our course had brought 
us. I could not distinguish their features. They were, however, 
close together. Kingsley was on their right, a little in advance 
of them, but still walking slowly. I pointed my finger toward 
a shallow and narrow part of the stream as that which they 
would find it most easy to cross. A tree had been felled at the 
designated point, and just below it, in consequence of the 
obstructions which its limbs presented to the easy passage of 
the water, several sand bars had been made, by which, stepping 
from one to the other, one might cross dryshod even without 
the aid of the tree. Kingsley repeated my signal to those be- 
hind him, and led the way. I went on with Wharton, without 
again looking behind me. 

But few minutes had elapsed after this, when I heard Julia 
scream in sudden terror. I looked round, but the foliage had 
thickened behind me, and I could no longer see the parties. I 
bounded backward, with no enviable feelings. My apprehen- 
sions for my wife’s safety made me forgetful of my suspicions. 
I reached the spot in time to discover the cause of her alarm. 


832 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


She was in the m’dst of the stream, standing upon one of the 
sandflats, steadying herself with difficulty, while she supported 
the whole form of William Edgerton, who lay, seemingly life- 
less, and half buried in one of the sluices of water which ran 
between the sandrifts. I had just time to see this, and to feel 
all the pangs of my jealousy renewed, when Kingsley rushed 
into the water to his rescue. He lifted him out to the banks as 
if he had been an infant, and laid him on the shore. I went to 
the relief of Julia, who, trembling like a leaf, fainted in my 
arms the moment she felt herself in safety. 

The whole affair was at that time unaccountable to me. It 
necessarily served to increase my pangs. Had I not seen her 
with my own eyes tenderly supporting the fainting frame of the 
man whom I believed to be my rival — whom I believed she 
loved ? Had I not heard her scream of terror announcing her 
interest in his fate — her apprehensions for his safety? His 
danger had made her forgetful of her caution — such was the 
assurance of my demon — and in the fullne s of her heart her 
voice found utterance. Besides, how was I to know what endear- 
ments — what fond pressure of palms — had been passing be- 
tween them, making them heedless of their course, and con- 
sequently, making them liable to the accident which had oc- 
cun*ed. For, it must be remembered, that the general impression 
was that Edgerton’s foot had slipped, and, falling into the stream 
while endeavoring to assist Julia, he had nearly pulled her in 
after him. His fainting afterward we ascribed to the same 
nervous weakness which had induced that of Julia. On this 
head, however, Kingsley was better informed. He told me, in 
a subsequent conversation, that he had narrowly observed the 
parties — that, until the moment before he fell, the hands of the 
two had not met — that then, Edgerton offered his to assist my 
wife over the stream, and scarcely had their fingers touched, 
when Edgerton sank down, like a stone, seemingly lifeless, and 
falling into the water only after he had become insensible. 

All was confusion. Mine, however, was not confusion. It 
was commotion — commotion which I yet suppressed — a vol- 
cano smothered, but smothered only for a time, and ready to 
break forth with superior fury in consequence of the restraint 
put upon it. This one event, with the impressive spectacle of 


ACCIDENT AND MORE AGONIES. 383 

the parties in such close juxtaposition, seemed almost to render 
every previous suspicion conclusive. 

Julia was soon recovered ; but the swoon of Edgerton was of 
much longer duration. We sprinkled him with water, subjected 
him to fanning and friction, and at length aroused him. His 
mind seemed to wander at his first consciousness — he murmur- 
ed incoherently. One or two oroken sentences, however, which 
he spoke, were not without significance in my ears. 

“ Closer ! closer ! leave me not now — not yet.’’ 

I bent over him to catch the words. Kingsley, as if he fear- 
ed the utterance of anything more, pushed me away, and addres- 
sing Edgerton sternly, asked him if he felt pain. 

“ What hurts you, Mr. Edgerton ? Where is your pain ?” 

The harsh and very loud tones which he employed, had the 
effect which I have no doubt he intended. The other came to 
complete consciousness in a moment. 

“ Pain !” said he — “ no ! I feel no pain. I feel feeble only.” 

And he strove to rise from the ground as he spoke. 

“Do not attempt it,” said Kingsley — “you are not able. 
Wharton, my good fellow, will you run back to town, and bring 
a carriage ?” 

“ It will not need,” said Edgerton, striving again to rise, and 
staggering up with difficulty. 

“ It will need. You must not overtask yourself. The walk 
is a long one before us.” 

Meantime, Wharton was already on his way. It was a tedious 
interval which followed, before his return with the carriage, 
which found considerable difficulty in picking a track through 
the woods. Julia, after recovery, had wandered off about a 
hundred yards from the party. She betrayed no concern — .lO 
uneasiness — made no inquiries after Edgerton, of whose condi- 
tion she knew nothing — and, by this very course, convinced me 
that she was conscious of too deep an interest in his fate to 
trust her lips in referring to it. All that she said to me was, 
that “ she had been so terrified on seeing him fall, that she did 
not even know that she had screamed.” 

“ Natural enough !” said my demon. “ Had she been able to 
Iiave controlled her utterance, she would have taken precious 


334 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


good care to have maintained the silence of the grave. But her 
feelings were too strong for her policy.” 

And I took this reasoning for gospel. 

The carriage came. Edgerton was put into it, but Julia posi- 
tively refused to ride. She insisted that she was perfectly equal 
to the walk and walk she would. I was pleased with this de- 
termination, but not willing to appear pleased. I expostulated 
with her even angrily, but found her incorrigible. Chagrin and 
disappointment were obvious enough on the face of William 
Edgerton 

I took my seat beside him, and left Kingsley and Wharton to 
escort my wife home. We had scarcely got in motion before a 
rash determination seized my mind. 

“ You must go home with me, Edgerton. It will not do, while 
you are in this feeble state, to remain at a public tavern.” 

He said something very faintly about crowding and incon- 
veniencing us. 

“ Pshaw — room enough — and Julia can be your nurse.” 

His eyes closed, he sunk back in the carriage, and a deep 
sigh escaped him. I fancied that he had a second time fainted ; 
but I soon discovered that his faintness was simply the sudden 
sense of an overcoming pleasure. I knit my teeth spasmodical- 
ly together ; I cursed him in the bitterness of my heart, but 
said nothing. It was a feeling of desperation that had prompt- 
ed the rash resolution which I had taken. 

“ At least,” I muttered to myself, “ it will bring these dam- 
ning doubts to a final trial. If they have been fools heretofore, 
opportunity will serve to madden them. We shall see — we 
shall know all very soon; — and then! — ” 

Ay, then ! 


THE DAMNING LETTER. 


335 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE DAMNING LETTER. 

Mrs. Porterfield, good old lady, half blind, half deaf, in- 
firiTi and gouty, hut very good natured, easily complied with my 
request to accommodate my friend. My friend ! — She soon put 
one of her bed-rooms in order, and Edgerton was in quiet 
possession of it sometime before the pedestrians came home. 
When my wife was told of what I had done, she was perfectly 
aghast. Her air of chagrin was well put on and excellently 
worn. But she said nothing. Kingsley wore a face of unusual 
gravity. 

“ You are either the most wilful or the most indifferent hus- 
band in the world,” was his whispered remark to me as he bade 
me good night, refusing to remain for supper. 

I said something to my wife about tending Edgerton — seeing 
to his wants — nursing him if he remained unwell, and so forth. 
She looked at me with a face of intense sadness, but made 
no reply. 

“ She is too happy for speech,” said my demon ; “ and such 
faces are easily made for such an occasion.” 

I went in to Edgerton after a brief space ; I found him feeble, 
complaining of chill. His hands felt feverish. I advised quiet 
and sent off for a physician. I sat with him until the physician 
came, but I observed that my presence seemed irksome to him. 
He answered me in monosyllables only ; his eyes, meanwhile, 
being averted, his countenance that of one excessively weary 
and impatient for release. The physician prescribed and left 
him, as I did myself. I thought he needed repose and desired to 
be alone. To my great surprise he followed me in less than 
half an hour into the supper-room, where he stubbornly sat out 


336 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the evening. He refused to take the physic prescribed for him 
and really did not now appear to need it. His eyes were light- 
ed up with unusual animation, his cheeks had an improved 
color, and without engaging very actively in the conversation, 
what he said was said with a degree of spirit quite uncommon 
with him during the latter days of our intimacy. 

Mr. Wharton spent the evening with us, and the ball of talk 
was chiefly sustained by him and myself. My wife said little, 
nothing save when spoken to, and wore a countenance of great- 
er gravity than ever. It seemed that Edgerton made some 
eflTort to avoid any particularity in his manner, yet seldom did I 
turn my eyes without detecting his in keen examination of my 
wife’s countenance. At such times, his glance usually fell to the 
ground, but toward the close of evening, he almost seemed to 
despise observation, or — which was more probable — was not 
conscious of it — for his gaze became fixed with a religious 
earnestness, which no look of mine could possibly divert or un- 
fix. He solicited my wife to play on the guitar, but she de- 
clined, until requested by Mrs. Porterfield, when she took up 
the instrument passively, and sung to it one of those ordinary 
negio-songs which are now so shockingly popular. I was sur- 
prised at this, for I well knew that she heartily detested the 
taste and spirit in which such things were conceived. Under 
tlie tuition of my demon, I immediately assumed this to be 
another proof of the decline of her delicacy. And yet, though 
I did not think of this at the time, she might have employed 
the coarse effusion simply as an antidote against the predomi- 
nance of a morbid sentimentalism. There is a moment in the 
history of the heart’s suffering, when the smallest utterance of 
the lips, or movement of the form, or expression of the eye, is 
prompted by some prevailing policy — some motive which the 
excited sensibilities deem of importance to their desires. 

She retired soon. Her departure was followed by that of Ed- 
gerton first, and next of Wharton. Mrs. Porterfield had already 
gone. I was alone at the entrance of our cottage. Not alone ! 
My demon was with me — suggestive of his pangs as ever — full 
of subtlety, and filling me with the darkest imaginings. The 
destroyer of my peace was in my dwelling. My wife may or 
may not be innocent. Happy for her if she is, but how can that 


THE DAMNING LETTER. 


337 


be known ] It mattered little to me in the excited mood which 
possessed me. Let any man fancy, as I did, that one, partaking 
of his hospitality, lying in the chamber which adjoined his own, 
yet meditated the last injury in the power of man to inflict 
against the peace and honor of his protector. Let him fancy 
this, and then ask what would be his own feelings — what his 
course ? 

Still, there is a sentiment of justice which is natural to every 
bosom with whom education has not been utter perversion. I 
believed much against Edgerton ; I suspected my wife ; I had 
seen much to ofPend my affections ; much to alarm my fears ; 
yet I knew nothing which was conclusive. That last event, the 
occurrence of the afternoon, seemed to prove not that the two 
were guilty, but that my wife loved the man who meditated 
guilt. This belief, doubtful so long, and against which I had 
really striven, seemed now to be concluded. I had heard her 
scream ; I had seen her tenderly sustaining his form ; I had felt 
her emotions, when, the danger being over, her feminine nature 
gained the ascendancy and she fainted in my arms. I could no 
longer doubt, that if she was still pure in mind, she was no longer 
insensible to a passion which must lessen that purity with 
every added moment of its permitted exercise. Still, even with 
this conviction, something more was necessary to justify me in 
what I designed. ^ There must be no doubt. I must see. I 
must have sufficient proof, for, as my vengeance shall be un- 
sparing, my provocation must be complete. That it might be 
so I had brought Edgerton into the house. Something more 
was necessary. Time and opportunity must be allowed him. 
This I insisted on, though, more than once, as I walked under 
the dark whispering groves which girdled our cottage, and 
caught a glimpse of the light in Edgerton’s chamber, my demon 
urged me to go in and strangle him. I had strength to resist 
this suggestion, but the struggle was a long one. 

I did not soon retire to rest. When I did, I still remained 
sleepless. But Julia slept. In her sleep she threw herself on 
my bosom, and seemed to cling about and clasp me as if with 
some fear of separation. Had I not fancied that this close em- 
brace was meant for another than myself, I had been more in- 
dulgent to the occasional moanings of distress that escaped her 

\b 


338 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

lips. But, thinking as I did, I forced her from me, and in dcing 
so she wakened. 

“ Edward,” she exclaimed on wakening, “ is it you 1” 

“Who should it be?” I demanded — all my suspitiono re- 
newed by her question. 

“ I am so glad. I have had such a dream. Oh ! Edward, 
I dreamed that you were killing me !” 

“Ha! what could have occasioned such a dream ?” 

My demon suggested, at this moment, that her dream had 
been occasioned by a consciousness of what her guilty fancies 
deserved. But she replied promptly : — 

“ Nay, I know not. It was the strangest fancy. I thought 
that you pursued me along the river — that my foot slipped and 
I fell among the bushes, where you caught me, and it was just 
when you were strangling me that I wakened.” 

“ Your dream was occasioned by the affair of the afternoon. 
Was nobody present but ourselves?” 

“Yes — there was a man at a little distance beycnd us, and 
he seemed to be running from you also.” 

“ A man I who was he ?” 

“ I don’t know exactly — his back wrg turned, but it seemed 
as if it was Mr. Edgerton.” 

“Ha! Mr. Edgerton !” 

A deep silence followed. She had spoken her reply firmly, 
but so slowly as to convince me of the mental reluctance which 
she felt in uttering this part of the dream. AYhen the imagina- 
tion is excited, how small are the events that confirm its ascen- 
dency, and stimulate its progress. This dream seemed to me as 
significant as any of the signs that informed the ancient augurs 
It bore me irresistibly forward in the direction of my previous 
thoughts. I began to see the path — dark, dismal — perhaps 
bloody — which lay before me. I began to feel the deed, al- 
ready in my soul, which destiny was about to require me to 
perform. A crime, half meditated, is already half committed. 
This is the danger of brooding upon the precipice of evil 
thoughts. A moment’s dizziness — a single plunge — and all is 
over ! 

I doubt whether Julia slept much the remainder of the night 
I know that I did not. She had her consciousness as well as 


TEE DAMNING LETTER. 


339 


mine. That I now know. The question — “ was her conscious- 
ness a guilty one f ’ That was the only question which re- 
mained for me ! 

Tho next morning I saw Edgerton. He looked quite as w'ell 
«K) on the previous night, but professed to feel otherwise — de- 
clined coming forth to breakfast, and begged me to send the 
physician to him on my way to the office. T immediately con- 
jectured that this was mere practice, for he had not taken the 
medicine which had been prescribed. 

He must keep sick to keep Tiere'^ said my demon. “ He 
can have no pretext, otherwise, to stay !” 

When I was about to leave the house Julia followed me to 
the door. 

“ Don’t forget to bring mother’s letter with you,” was her 
parting direction. I had not been half an hour at the office be- 
fore a little servant-girl, who tended in the house, came to me 
with a message from her, requesting that the letter might be 
sent by her. 

This earnestness struck me with surprise. T remembered the 
expression in my wife’s face the day before when I told her the 
letter had been received. I now recalled to mind the fact, that, 
on no occasion, had she ever shown me any of her mother’s let- 
ters ; though nothing surely would have seemed more natural, 
as she knew how keen was my anxiety to hear at all times from 
the old maternal city. 

My suspicions began to warm, and I resolved upon another 
act of baseness in obedience to the counsel of my evil spirit. I 
pretended to look awhile for the letter, but finally dismissed the 
girl, saying that I had mislaid it, but would bring it- home with 
me when I came to dinner. The moment she had gone I ex- 
amined this precious document. It was sealed with one of those 
gum wafers which are stuck on the outside of the envelope. In 
turning it over, as if everything was prepared to gratify my 
wish, I discovered that one section of the wafer had nearly 
parted from the paper. To the upper section of the fold 
it adhered closely. To the lower it was scarcely attached 
at all, and seemed never to have been as well fastened as the 
upper. 

The temptation was irresistible. A very slight effort enabled 


340 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

me to complete the separation without soiling the paper or frac- 
turing the seal. This was all done within my desk, the leaf of 
the desk being raised and resting upon my head. In this posi- 
tion I could easily close the desk, in the event of any intrusion, 
without suffering the intruder to see in what I had been en- 
gaged. Thus guarded I proceeded to read the precious epistle, 
which I found very much what I should have expected from 
such a woman. It said a great deal about her neighbors and 
her neighbors’ dresses ; and how her dear Delaney was some- 
times “ obstropolous,” though in the end a mighty good man ; 
and much more over which I hurried with all the rapidity of 
disgust. But there was matter that made me linger. One or 
two sentences thrown into the postscript contained a volume. 
I read, with lifted hair and a convulsed bosom, the following 
passage : — 

“ Delaney tells me that Bill Edgerton has gone to travel. He 
says to Tennessee. But I know better. I know he can’t keep 
from you, let him try his best. But be on your guard, Julia. 
Don’t let him get too free. Your husband’s a jealous man, 
and if he was once to dream of the truth, he’d just as 
leave shoot him as look at him. I thought at one time 
he’d have guessed the truth before. So far you’ve played 
your cards nicely, but that was when I was by you, to tell 
you how. I feel quite ticklish when I think of you, and re- 
member you’ve got nobody now to consult with. All I can 
say is, keep close. It would be the most terrible thing if Clif- 
ford should find out or even suspect. He wouldn’t spare either 
of you. It’s better for a woman in this country to drag on and 
be wretched, than to expose herself to shame, for no one cares 
for her after that. Be sure and burn this the moment you’ve 
read it. I would not have it seen for the world. I only write 
it as a matter of duty, for I can’t forget that I’m your mother, 
though I must say, Julia, there were times when you have not 
acted the part of a daughter.” 

Precious, voluminous postscript ! Considerate mother ! “ Be 
on your guard, Julia. Don’t let him get too free !” Prudent, 
motherly counsel ! “ You’ve played^ your cards nicely.” Nice 

lady ! “ I feel quite ticklish !” Elegant sensibilities ! 

Enough ! The evil was done. Here was another piece o 


THE DAMNING LETTER. 


341 


damning testimony, indirect but conclusive, to show that I was 
bedevilled. I refolded the letter, but I could not place my lips 
to the wafer. The very letter seemed to breathe of poison. 
Faugh ! I put it from me, went to the basin, and wetting the 
end of my finger, sufficiently softened the gum to make it more 
effectually fasten the letter than when I had received it. This 
done, I proceeded to the business of the day with what appetite 
was left me. 


342 


CONFESSION. OB THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

VERGE OF THE PRECIPICE. 

I DO not know bow I got through with the business of that 
day. Even in my weakness I was possessed of ts. singular de- 
gree of strength. I saw Kingsley, Wharton, and all of the par- 
ties whom we met the day before. We came to a final decision 
on the subject of Kingsley’s claims ; I took down the heads of 
several papers which were to be drawn up; the terms of sale 
and transfer, bounds and characteristics of the land to be con- 
veyed ; and engaged in the discussion of the various topics which 
were involved in these transactions, with as keen a sense of 
business, I suspect, as any among them. The habit of suppres- 
sing my feelings availed me sufficiently under the present cir- 
cumstances. Kingsley said nothing on the subject of yester- 
day’s adventure, nor was I in the mood to refer to it. With 
some effort I was cheerful ; spoke freely of indifferent topics, 
and pleased myself with the idea of my own firmness, while per- 
suading my hearers of my good humor and my legal ability. I 
do not deny that I paid for these proofs of stoicism. Who does 
not ? There is no such thing as suppressing passions which are 
already in action — at least, there is no such thing as suppres- 
sing them long. If the summer tempest keeps off to-day it will 
come to-morrow, and its force and volume is always in due pro- 
portion to the delay in its utterance. The solitudes of the for- 
est heard my groans and agonies when man did not — and the 
venom which I kept from njy lips, overflowed and poisoned the 
very sources of life and happiness within my heart. 

I gave the letter to Julia without a word. She did not look 


VERGE OP THE PRECIPICE. 


843 


at me while extending the hand to receive it, and hurried to her 
chamber without breaking the seal. I watched her depai’ting 
form with a vague, painful emotion of inquiry, such as would 
possess the bosom of one, looking on a dear object, with whom 
he felt that a disruption was hourly threatened of every earthly 
tie. That day she ate no dinner. Her brow was clouded 
throughout the meal. Edgerton was present, seemingly as well 
as at his first arrival. I had learned casually from Mrs. Porter- 
field that he had been in our little parlor all the morning ; while 
another remark from the good old lady gave me a new idea of 
the employment of ray wife. 

“ This writing/’ said she, addressing the latter, “ does your 
eyes no good. Indeed they look as if you had been crying 
over your task.” 

“What writing?” I asked, looking at Julia, She blushed, 
but said nothing, and the blush passed off, leaving the sadness 
more distinct than ever. 

“ Oh, she has been writing whole sheets for the last two morn- 
ings. 1 went in this morning to bring her out to assist me in 
entertaining Mr. Edgerton, who looked so lonesome ; and I do 
assure you I thought at first, from the quantity of writing, that 
you had given her some of your law-papers to do. The table 
was covered with it.” 

“Indeed!” said I — “this must be looked into. It will not 
do lor the wife to take the husband’s business from him. It 
looks mischievous, Mrs. Porterfield — there’s something wrong 
about it.” 

“ Indeed there must be, Mr. Clifford, for only see how very 
sad it makes her. I declare, she looks this last few weeks like 
a very different woman. She does nothing now but mope. 
When she first came here she seemed to me so cheerful and 
happy.” 

All this was so much additional wormwood to my bitter. The 
change in Julia, which had even struck this blind old lady, cor- 
responded exactly with the date of Edgerton’s arrival. When 
I saw the earnest tenderness in his countenance as he watched 
her, while Mrs. Porterfield was speaking, I ceased to feel any 
sympathy for the intense sadness which I yet could not but see 
in hers. I turned away, and leaving the table soon after, went 


344 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


to our chamber, but the traces of writing we-e no longer to be 
seen. The voluminous manuscripts had all been carefully re- 
moved. I was about to leave the chamber when Julia met me 
at the door. 

“ Come back ; sit with me,” she said. “ Why do you go off 
in such a hurry always ? Once it was not so, Edward.” 

“ What ! are you for the honeymoon again ?” 

“Do not smile so, and speak so irreverently!” che £atd, with 
a reproachful earnestness that certainly seemed to me very 
strange, thinking of her as I did. My evil spirit was silent. 
He lacked readiness to account for it. But he was not uuadroit, 
and moved me to change the ground. 

“ But what long writing is this, Julia t” 

“ Ah ! you are curious V' 

“ Scarcely.” 

“ Tell me that you are ?” 

“ What 1 at the expense of truth V* 

“ No 1 but to gratify my desire. I hoped you were ; but, cu- 
rious or not, it is for you.” 

“ Let me see it, then.” 

“ Not yet ; it is not ready.” 

“ What I shall there be more of it V* 

“ Yes, a good deal.” 

“ Indeed 1 but why take this labor ? Why not tell me what 
you have to say ?” 

“ 1 wish I could, but I can not. You do not encourage me.” 

“ What encouragement do you wish to speak to your hus- 
band ?” 

“ Oh, much ! Stay with me, dear husband.” 

“ That will keep you from your writing.” 

“ Ah ! perhaps it will render it unnecessary.” 

“ At all events it will keep me from mine ;” and I prepared 
to go. She put her hand upon my shoulder — looked into my 
eyes pleadingly — hers were dewy wet — and spoke : — 

“Do not go — stay with me, dear husband, do stay. Stay 
only for half an hour.” 

Why did I not stay ? I should ask that question of myself 
in vain. When the heart grows peiwerse, it acquires a taste for 
wilful ness. T, myself, longed to stay ; could I have been per- 


V^EUGE OF THE PRECIPICE. 


345 


suaded tliat slie certainly desired it, I should have found my 
sweetest pleasure in remaining. But there was the rub — that 
doubt ! all that she said, looked, did, seemed, through the me- 
dium of the blind heart, to be fraudulent. 

“ She would disguise her anxiety, that you should be gone. 
Leave her, and in twenty minutes she and Edgerton will be 
together.” 

Such was the whisper of my demon. I did leave her. I 
went forth for an hour into the woods — returned suddenly and 
found them together ! They were playing chess, Mrs. Porter- 
field, with all her spectacles, watching the game. I did not 
ask, and did not know, till afterward, that the express solicita- 
tion of the old lady had drawn her from her chamber, and placed 
her at the table. The conjecture of the evil spirit proved so far 
correct, and this increased my confidence in his whispers. Alas ! 
how readily do we yield our faith to the spirit of hate ! how 
slow to believe the pure and gentle assurances of love ! 

Three days passed after this fashion. Edgertan no longer 
expressed indisposition, yet he made no offer to depart. I took 
care that neither word nor action should remind him of his tres- 
pass. I gave the parties every opportunity, and exhibited the 
manner of an indifference which was free from all disquiet — all 
suspicion. The sadness, meanwhile, increased upon the coun- 
tenance of Julia. She gazed at me in particular with a look of 
earnestness amounting to distress. This I ascribed to the 
strength of her passions. There was even at moments a harsh- 
ness in her tones when addressing me now, which was unusual 
to her. I found some reason for this, equally unfavorable to 
her fidelity. After dinner I said to Edgerton : — 

** You are scarcely strong enough for a bout at the bottle. I 
take wine with Kingsley this afternoon. He has commissioned 
me to ask you.” 

“ I dare not venture, but that should not keep you away.” 

“ It will not,” I said indifferently. 

“ Thank him for me, if you please, but tell him it will not do 
for one so much an invalid as myself.” 

“Very good!” and I left him, and joined Kingsley. The 
business of this friend being now in a fair train for final adjust- 
ment, he was preparing for his return to Texas. He had not 

15 * 


346 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


been at my lodgings since Edgerton’s arrival in M , but we 

had seen each other, nevertheless, almost every day at his or at 
my office. Our afternoon was rather merry than cheerful. 
Heaven knows I was in no mood to be a hon compagnon, but I 
took sufficient pains that Kingsley should not suspect I had any 
reasons for being otherwise. I had my jest — I emptied my 
bottle — I said my good things, and seemed to say them without 
effort. Kingsley, always cheerful and strong-minded, was in 
his best vein, and mingling wit and reflection happily together, 
maintained the ball of conversation with equal ease and felicity. 
He had the happy knack of saying happy things quietly — of 
waiting for, and returning the ball, without running after it. 
At another time, I should have been content simply to have 
provoked him. Now, I was quite too miserable not to seek em- 
ployment ; and to disguise feelings, which I should have been 
ashamed to expose, I contrived to take the lead and almost grew 
voluble in the frequency of my utterance. Perhaps, if Kingsley 
failed in any respect as a philosopher, it was in forbearing to 
look with sufficient keenness of observation into the heart of his 
neighbor. He evidently did not see into mine. He waS de- 
ceived by my manner. He credited all my fun to good faith, 
and gravely pronounced me to be a fortunate fellow. 

“ How I demanded with a momentary cessation of the jest. 
His gravity and — to me — the strange error in such an obser- 
vation — excited my curiosity. 

“ In your freedom from jealousy.’^ 

“ Oh ! that, eh ? But why should I be jealous V* 

It is not exactly why a man should be jealous — but why, 
knowing what men are, usually, that you are not. Nine men 
in ten would be so under your circumstances V* 

“ How, what circumstances V* 

“With Edgerton in your house — evidently fond of your 
wife, you leave them utterly to themselves. You bring him into 
your house unnecessarily, and give him every opportunity. I 
still think you risk everything imprudently. You may pay 
for it.” 

I felt a strange sickness at my heart. I felt that the flame 
was beginning to boil up within me. The perilous tui-ning-point 
of passion — the crisis of strength and endurance — was at hand- 


VERGE OF THE PRECIPLCE. 


347 


My eyes settled gloomily upon the table. I was silent longer 
than usual. I felt that., and hoked up. The keen glance of 
Kingsley was upon me. It would net do to suffer him to read 
my feelings. I replied with seme precipitation : — 

“ I see, Kingsley, you are not cured of your prejudices against 
Edgerton.” 

“ I am not — I have seen nothing to cure me. But my preju- 
dice against him, has nothing to do with my opinion of your 
prudence. Were it any other man, the case would be the 
same.” 

“ Well, but I do not think it so clear that Edgerton loves my 
wife more than is natural and proper.” 

“Of the naturalness of his love I say nothing — perhaps, 
nothing could be more natural. But that he does love her, and 
loves her as no married woman should be loved, by another than 
her husband, is clear ei.ough.” 

“ Suppose, then, it be as you say ! So long as he does noth- 
ing improperly, there is nothing to be said. There is no evil.” 

“ Ah, but there is evil. There is danger.” 

“ How ? I do not see.” 

“ Suppose your wife makes the same discovery which other 
persons have made ? Suppose she finds out that Edgerton loves 
her ?” 

“ Well — what then ?” 

“ She can not remain uninfluenced by it. It will affect her 
feelings sensibly in some way. No creature in the world can 
remain insensible to the attachment of another.” 

“ Indeed ! Why, agreeable to that doctrine, there could be 
no security from principle. There could be no virtue certain — 
nay, not even love.” 

“ Do not mistake me. When I say she would be influenced 
— I do not mean to cay that she would be so influenced as to 
requite the illicit sentiment. Far from it. But she must pity 
or she must scorn. She may despise or she may deplore. In 
either case her feelings would be aroused, and in either case 
would produce uneasiness if not unhappiness. I know, Clifford, 
that your wife perceives the passion of Edgerton — I am confi- 
dent, also, that it has influenced her feelings. What may be 
the sentiment produced by this influence I do not pretend to 


848 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


say. I would not insinuate that it is more than would be natu- 
ral to the breast of any virtuous woman. She may pity or she 
may scorn — she may despise or she may deplore. I know not. 
But, in either case, I regard your bringing Edgerton into the 
house and conferring upon him so many opportunities, as being 
calculated either to make yourself or your wife miserable. In 
either event you have done wrong. Look to it — remedy it as 
soon as you can.” 

My face burned like fire. My Qyes were fixed upon the table. 
I dared not look upon my companion. When I spoke, I felt a 
choking difficulty in my utterance which compelled me to speak 
loud to be understood, and which yet left my speech thick, 
husky, and unnatural. 

“ Say no more, Kingsley. What you have said disturbs me. 
Nay, I acknowledge, I have been disturbed before. Perhaps, 
indeed, I know more than yourself. Time vnll show. At all 
events, be sure of one thing. These opportunities, if what you 
say be true, afford an ordeal through which it is necessary that 
the parties should now go— if it be only to afford the necessary 
degree of relief to my mind. Enough has been seen to excite 
suspicion — enough has been done, you yourself think, to awaken 
the feelings of my wife. Those feelings must now be tried. 
Opportunity will do this. She must go through the trial. I 
am not blind as you suppose. Nay, I am watchful, and I tell 
you, Kingsley, that the time approaches when all my doubts 
must cease one way or the other.” 

“But I still think, Clifford — ” he began. 

“ No more, Kingsley. I tell you, matters must go on. Ed- 
gerton can now only be driven from my house by my wife. If 
she expels him, I shall be too happy not to forgive him. But 
if she makes it necessary that the expulsion shall be effected by 
my hands, and with violence — Gcd have mercy upon both of 
them, for I shall not. Good night!” 

“ But why will you go ? Ctay awhile longer. Be not rash 
— do nothing precipitately, Clifford.” 

I smiled bitterly in replying : — 

“ You need not fv^ar me. Have I not proved myself patient 
— patient until you pronounced me cold and indifferent? Why 
should y^u sapoose that, having waited and forborne so long. 


349 


OP THE PRECIPICE. 

I should be guilty of rashness now ? No, Kingsley ! My wife 
is very dear to me — how dear I will not say; I will be delib- 
erate for her sake — for my own. I will be sure, very sure — 
quite sure; — but, once sure ! — Good night.” 

Kingsley followed me to the door. His last injunctions ex- 
horted me to forbearance and deliberation. I silenced them by 
a significant repetition of the single words, “ Good night — good 
night !” and hurried, with every feeling of anxiety and jealousy 
awakened, in the direction of my cottage. 


850 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE UNBRIDLED MADNESS. 

The night did not promise to be a good one. The clouds 
were scudding wildly from east to west. The air was moist 
and chill. There was no light from moon or stars, and I strode 
with difficulty, though still rapidly, through the unpaved streets. 
I was singularly and painfully excited by the conversation with 
Kingsley. My own experience before, had prepared me to be- 
come so, with the slightest additional provocation. Facts were 
rapidly accumulating to confirm my fears, and lessen my doubts. 
That dark, meaning letter of Mrs. Delaney ! The adventure 
in the streamlet. — The scream — the look — the secrecy ! What 
a history seemed to be compressed in these few topics. 

I hurried forward — I was now among the trees. I had al- 
most to grope my way, it was so dark. I was helped forward 
by some governing instincts. My fiend was busy all the while. 
I fancied, now, that there was something exulting in his tone. 
But he drove me forward without forbearance. I felt that these 
clouds in the sky — this gloom and excitement in my heart — 
were not for nothing. Every gust of wind brought to me some 
whisper of fear ; and there seemed a constant murmur among 
the trees — one burden — whose incessant utterance was only 
shame and wo. How completely the agony of one’s spirit 
sheds its tone of horror upon the surrounding world. How the 
flowers wither as our hearts wither — how sickly grows sunlight 
and moonlight, in our despair — how lonely and utter sad is the 
breath of winds, when our bosoms are about to be laid bare 
of hope and sustenance by the brooding tempest of our 
sorrows. 

I had a terrible prescience of some dreadful experience 
which awaited me as I drove forward. Obstructions of tree 
and shrub, and tangled vines, encountered me, but did not long 


THE UNBRIDLED MADNESS. 361 

arrest, and I really felt them not. I put them aside without a 
consciousness. 

At length a glimmering light informed me I was near the 
cottage. I could see the heavy dark masses of foliage that 
crowded before the entrance. The light was in the parlor. 
There was also one in the room of Mrs. Porterfield. Ours, 
which was on the same floor with hers, was in darkness. I 
never experienced sensations more like those of a drunken man 
than when, working my way cautiously among the trees, I ap- 
proached the window. The glasses were down, possibly in 
consequence of the violence of the gust. But there was one 
thing unusual. The curtains were also down at both windows. 
These curtains were half-curtains only. They fell from the 
upper t'dgo of the lower sash, and wars simply meant to protect 
the inmates from the casual glance of persons in front. Ths 
house was on an elevation of two or three feet from the ground. 
It was impossible to see into the apartment unless I could raise 
myself at least that much above my own stature. I looked 
around me for a stump, bench, block — anything; but there 
was nothing, or in the darkness I failed to find it. To flamber 
up against the side of the house would have disturbed the in- 
mates. I ascended a tree, and buried within its leaves, looked 
directly into the apartment. 

They were together! alone! — at the eternal chess! Julia 
sat upon the sofa. Edgerton in front of her. A small table 
stood between th^m. I had arrived at an opportune moment. 
Julia’s hand was extended to the board. I saw the very piece 
it rested upon. It was the white queen ; but, just at that mo- 
ment — nothing could be more clearly visible — the hand of 
Edgerton was laid upon hers. She instantly withdrew it, and 
looked upward. Her face was the color of carnation — flushed 
— so said my demon, with the overwhelming passions in her 
breast. The next moment the table was thrust aside — the 
chess-men tumbled upon the floor, and Edgerton kneeling be- 
fore my wife had grasped her about the waist, and was drag- 
ging her to his knee. 

I saw no more. A sudden darkness passed over my eyes. A 
keen, quick, thrilling pang went through my whole, frame, and 1 
fell from the tree, upon the earth below, in utter unconsciousness- 


352 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

FATAL SILENCE. 

CTRiiiiaE and cruel destiny! When everything depended 
upon my firmness, I was overwhelmed by feebleness. It seemed 
as if I had not before believed that this terrible moment of 
confirmation would come. And yet, if anybody could have 
been prepared for such a discovery, I should have been. I had 
blooded OA^er it for months. A thousand times had my imagi- 
nation 2 Vtured it to me in the most vivid and fearftil aspect. 
I fancied that I should have been steeled l.y conviction against 
every other feeling but that of vengeance. But in reality, my 
hope was so sanguir.e, loy love for Julia so fervent, I did not, 
amidst all my fears, really believe that such a thing could ever 
prove true. All my boasted planning and preparation, and es- 
pionage, had only deceived myself. I believed, at worst, that 
Julia might be brought to love William Edgerton, but that he 
would presume to give utterance to his h ve, and that she would 
submit to listen, was not truly within my belief. I had not 
been prepared for this, however much, in my last interview with 
Kingsley, I had professed myself to be. 

But had she submitted ? That was still a question. I had 
seen nothing beyond what I have stated. His audacious hand 
had rested upon hers — his impious arm had encircled her waist, 
and then my blindness and darkness followed, I was struck as 
completely senseless, and fell from the tree with as little seem- 
ing life, as if a sudden bullet had traversed my heart. 

In this state I lay. How long I know not — it must have 
been for scA cral hours. I Avas brought to eonsciousness by a 


FATAL SILENCE. 


353 


sense of cold. T was benumbed — a steady rain was falling, 
and from the condition of my clothes, which were completely 
saturated, must have been falling for some time previous. I 
rose with pain and difficulty to my feet. I was still as one 
stunned and stupified, hj^ one of those extremes of suffering for 
which the overcharged heart can find no sufficient or sufficient- 
ly rapid method of relief. When I rose, the light was no longer 
in the parlor. The parties were withdrawn. 

Horrible thought ! That I should have failed at that trying 
moment. I knew everything — I knew nothing. It was still 
possible that Julia had repulsed him. I had seen his audacity 
only — was it followed by her guilt ? How shall that be known ? 
I could answer this question as Kingsley would have answered it. 

“ If your wife be honest, she must now reveal the truth. 
She can no longer forbear. The proceeding of Edgertou hc.s 
been too decided, and she shares his guilt if she longer keeps it 
secret. The wife who submits to this form of insult, without 
seeking protection where alone it may be found, clearly shows 
that the offence is grateful to her — that she deems it no insult.” 

That, then, shall be the test ! So I determined. Edgertou 
must be punished. There is no escape. But for her — if she 
docs not seek tlie earliest occasion to reveal the truth, she is 
guilty beyond doubt — doomed beyond redemption. 

I entered the house with difficulty. I was as feeble as if I 
had been under the hands of the physician for weeks, A light 
was burning on the staircase. I took it and went into the par- 
lor, which I narrowly examined. There were no remaining 
proofs of the late disorder. The table was set against the wall. 
The chess-men were all gathered up, and neatly put away in 
the box, which stood upon the mantel. 

“ There is proof of coolness and deliberation here!” I mut- 
tered to myself, as I took my way up-stairs. When I entered 
my chamber, I felt a pang, the fore-runner of a spasm. I had 
been for several years afflicted with these spasms, in great or 
small degree. They marked every singular mental excitement 
under which I labored. It was no doubt one of these spasms 
which had seized and overpowered me while I sat within the 
tree. Never before had I suffered from one so severe ; but the 
violence of this was naturally due to the extreme of agony — a.s 


354 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sudden as it was terrible — which seized upon my soul. My 
physician had provided me with a remedy against these attacks 
to which I was accustomed to resort. This, though a potent 
remedy, was also a potent poison. It was a medicine called 
the hydrocyanic or prussic acid. Five minims was a dose, but 
two drops were death. I went to the medicine-case which 
stood beneath the head of the bed, with the view to getting out 
the vial ; but my wife started up eagerly as I approached, and 
with trembling accents, demanded wbat was the matter. She 
saw me covered with mud and soaking with water. I told her 
that 1 had got wet coming homeward and had slipped down 
the hill. 

“Why did you stay so late — why not come home sooner, 
dear husband 

“Hypocrite !” I muttered while stooping down for the chest. 

•You are sick — you have your spasms!” she now said, 
rising from the bed and offering to measure the medicine. This 
she had repeatedly done before ; but I was not now willing to 
trust her. Doubts of her fidelity led to other doubts. 

“ If she is prepared to dishonor, she is prepared to destroy 
you !” said my familiar. 

This suggestion seized upon my brain, and while I measured 
out the minims, the busy fiend reminded me that I grasped the 
bane as well as the antidote in my hand. A stern, a terrible 
image of retributive justice presented itself before my thoughts. 
The feeling of an awful necessity grew strong within me. 
“ Shall the adulterer alone perish ? Shall the adultress escape?” 
The fiend answered with tremulous but stern passion — “She 
shall surely die !” 

“ If she reveals not the truth in season,” I said in my secret 
soul ; “ if she claims not protection at my hands against the 
adulterer, she shall share bis fate I” and with this resolve, even 
at the moment when I was measuring the antidote for myself, I 
resolved that the same vial should furnish the bane for her I 

The medicine relieved me, though not with the same prompt- 
ness as usual. I looked at the watch and found it two o’clock. 
My wife begged me to come to bed, but that was impossible. 
I proceeded to change my garments. By the time that I had 
finished, the rain ceased, llie stars came out. tlic morning ])roin- 


THE FATAL SILENCE. 


355 


ised to be clear. I determined to set forth from my office. I 
had no particular purpose; but I felt that I could not meditate 
where she was. She continually spoke to me — always tenderly 
and with great earnestness. 1 pleaded my spasms as a reason 
for not lying down. But I lingered. I was as unwilling to go 
as to stay. I longed to hear her narrative ; and, once or twice, 
I fancied that she wished to tell me something. But she did 
not. I w-^aited till near daylight, in order that she should have 
every opportunity, but she said little beyond making profes- 
sions of love, and imploring me to come to bed. 

In sheer despair, at last, I went out, taking my pistol-case, 
unperceived by her, under my arm. I went to my office where 
I locked it up. There I seated myself, brooding in a very 
whirlwind of thought, until after daylight. 

When the sun had risen, I went to a man in the neighbor- 
hood who hired out vehicles. I ordered a close carriage to be 
at my door by a certain hour, immediately after breakfast. I 
then despatched a note to Kingsley, saying briefly that Edger- 
ton and myself would call for him at nine. I then returned 
home. My wife had arisen, but had not left the chamber. She 
pleaded headache and indisposition, and declined coming out to 
breakfast. She seemed very sad and unhappy, not to say 
greatly disquieted — appearfinces which I naturally attributed 
to guilt. For — still she said nothing. I lingered near her on 
various small pretences in the hope to hear her speak. I even 
made several approaches which, I fancied, might tend to pro- 
voke the wished-for revelation. Indeed, it was wished for as 
ardently as ever soul wished for the permission to live — prayed 
for as sinceiely as the dying man prays for respite, and the tem- 
porary remission of his doom. 

In vain ! My wife said little, and nothing to the purpose. 
The moments became seriously short. Could she have anything 
to say? Was it possible that, being innocent, she should still 
lock up the guilty secret in her bosom ? She could not be in- 
nocent to do so ! This conclusion seemed inevitable. In order 
that she should have no plea of discouragement, I spoke to her 
with great tenderness of manner, with a more than usual display 
of feeling. It w^as no mere show. I felt all that I said and 
looked. I knew that a trying and terrible event was at hand 


856 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


— an event painful to us both — and all my love for her revived 
■with tenfold earnestness. Oh ! how I longed to take her into 
my arms, and warn her tenderly of the consequences of her er- 
ror ; but this, of course, was impossible. But, short of this, I 
did everything that I thought likely to induce her confidence. 
I talked familiarly to her, and fondly, with an effort at childlike 
simplicity and earnestness, in the hope that, by thus renewing 
the dearest relations of ease and happiness between us, she 
should be beguiled into her former trusting readiness of speech. 
She met my fondnesses with equal fondness. It seemed to give 
her particular pleasure that I should be thus fond. In her em- 
brace, requiting mine, she clung to me ; and her tears dropping 
warm upon my hands, were yet attended by smiles of the most 
hearty delight. A thousand times she renewed the assurances 
of her love and attachment — nay, she even went so far as ten- 
derly to upbraid me that our moments of endearment were so 
few ; — yet, in spite of all this, she still forbore the one only 
subject. She still said nothing ; and as I knew how much 
she could say and ought to say, which she did not say, I could 
not resist the conviction that her tears were those of the croco- 
dile, and her assurances of love the glozing commonplaces of 
the harlot. 

In silence she suffered me to leave her for the breakfast-table. 
She looked, it is true — but what had I to do with looks, how- 
ever earnest and devoted? I went from her slowly. When 
on the stairs, fancying I had heard her voice, I returned, but 
she had not called me. She was still silent. Full of sadness I 
left her, counting slowly and sadly every step which I took 
from her presence. 

Edgerton was already at table. He looked very wretched. 
I observed him closely. His eye shrunk from the encounter of 
mine. His looks answered sufficiently for his guilt. I said to 
him : — 

“ I have to ride out a little ways in the country this morning, 
and count upon your company. I trust you feel well enough to 
go with me ? Indeed, it will do you good.” 

Of course, my language and manner were stripped of every- 
thing that might alarm his fears. He hesitated, but complied. 
Qffie carriage was at the door before we had finished breakfast ; 


THE FATAL SILENCE. 


357 


and Avith no other object than simply to afford her another op- 
portunity for the desired revelation, I once more Avent up to my 
Avdfe’s chamber. Here I lingered fully ten minutes, affecting to 
search for a paper in trunks Avbere T kneAV it could not be found. 
While thus engaged I spoke to her frequently and fondly. She 
did not need the impulse to make her revelation, except in her OAvn 
heart. The occasion Avas unemployed. She suffered me once 
more to depart in silence ; and this time I felt as if the Avord of 
utter and ineAutable wo had been spoken. The hour had gone 
by for ever. I could no longer resist the conviction of her 
shameless guilt. All her sighs and tears, professions of love and 
devotion, the fond tenacity of her embrace, the deep-seated 
earnestness and significance in her looks — all went for nothing 
in her failure to utter the one only, and all-important communi- 
cation. 

Let no woman, on any pretext, however specious, deceive 
herself with the fatal error, that she can safely harbor, unspoken 
to her husband, the secret of any insult, or base approach, of 
another to herself! 


858 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 

TOO LATE ! 

Edgerton announced himself to be in readiness, and, at the 
same time, declared his intention to withdraw at once from 
our hospitality and return to his old lodging-house. He had 
already given instructions to his servant for the removal of 
his things. 

“What!” I said with a feeling of irony, which did not 
make itself apparent in my speech — “ you are tired of our 
hospitality, Edgerton ? We have not treated you well, I am 
afraid.” 

“ Yes,” he muttered faintly, “ too well. I have every reason 
to be gratified and grateful. No reason to complain.” 

He forced himself to say something more by way of ac- 
knowledgment ; but to this I gave little heed. We drove first 
to Kingsley’s, and took him up ; then, to my office, where I got 
out, and, entering the office, wrapped up my pistol-case care- 
fully in a newspaper, so that the contents might not be conjec- 
tured, and bringing it forth, thrust it into the boot of the car- 
riage. 

“ What have you got there ?” demanded Kingsley. 

“Something for digestion,” was my reply. “We may be 
kept late.” 

“ You are wise enough to be a traveller,” said Kingsley ; and 
without further words we drove on. I fancied that when I put 
the case into the vehicle, Edgerton looked somewhat suspicious. 
That he was uneasy was evident enough. He could not well 
be otherwise. The consciousness of guilt was enough to make 


TOO LATE ! 359 

him so ; and then there was but little present sympathy between 
himself and Kingsley. 

I had already given the driver instructions. He carried us 

into the loneliest spot of woods some four miles from M , and 

in a direction very far from the beaten track. 

“ What brings you into this quarter 1” demanded Kingsley. 
*‘ What business have you here 

“We stop here,’^ I said as the carriage drove up. “I have 
some land to choose and measure here. Shall we alight, 
gentlemen ?” 

I took the pistol-case in my hands and led the way. They 
followed me. The carriage remained. We went on together 
several hundred yards until I fancied we should be quite safe 
from interruption. We were in a dense forest. At a little dis- 
tance was a small stretch of tolerably open pine land, which 
seemed to answer the usual purposes. Here I paused and con- 
fronted them. 

“ Mr. Kingsley,” I said without further preliminaries, “ I have 
taken the liberty of bringing you here, as the most honorable 
man I know, in order that you should witness the adjustment 
of an affair of honor between Mr. Edgerton and myself.” 

As I spoke I unrolled the pistol-case. Edgerton gi*ew pale 
as death, hut remained silent. Kingsley was evidently aston- 
ished, but not so much so as to forbear the obvious answer. 

“How! an affair of honor? Is this inevitable — necessary, 
Clifford ?” 

“ Absolutely 1” 

“ In no way to be adjusted ?” 

“ In but one ! This man has dishonored me in the dearest 
relations of my household.” 

“ Ha ! can it be ?” 

“ Too true ! There is no help for it now. I am dealing with 
him still as a man of honor. I should have been justified in 
shooting him down like a dog — as one shoots down the reptile 
that crawls to the cradle of his children. I give him an equal 
chance for life.” 

“ It is only what I feared 1” said Kingsley, looking at E'lgrr- 
ton as he spoke. 

Tlie latter had staggered back against a tree. Big dn-ps .f 


360 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


sweat stood upon 4iis brows. His head hung down. Still he 
Avas silent. I gave the weapons to Kingsley, who proceeded to 
charge them. 

“ 1 will not fight you, Olifibrd !” exclaimed the criminal with 
husky accents. 

“ You must !” 

“I can not — I dare not — I will not! You may shoot me 
down where I stand. I have wronged you. I dare not lift 
weapon at your breast.” 

“ Wretch ! say not this !” I answered. “ You must make the 
atonement.” 

“ Be it so 1 Shoot me ! You are right ! I am ready to die.” 

“ No, William Edgerton, no ! You must not refuse me the 
only atonement you can make. You must not couple that atone- 
ment with a sting. Hear me ! You have violated the rites of 
hospitality, the laws of honor and of manhood, and grossly 
abused all the obligations of friendship. These offences would 
amply justify me in taking your life without scruple, and with- 
out exposing my own to any hazard. But my soul revolts at 
this. I remember the past — our boyhood togetlier — and the 
parental kindness of your venerated parent. These deprive 
me of a portion of that bitterness which would otherwise have 
moved me to destroy you. Take the pistol. If life is nothing 
to you, it is as little to me now. Use the privilege Avhich I give 
you, and I shall be satisfied with the event.” 

He shook his head while he repeated : — 

“No 1 I can not. Say no more, Olifibrd. I deserve death I” 

I clapped the pistol to his head. He folded his arms, lifted 
his eyes, and regarded me more steadily than he had done for 
months before. Kingsley struck up my arm, as I was cocking 
the weapon. 

“ He must die !” I exclaimed fiercely. 

“Yes, that is certain!” replied the other. “But I am not 
willing that I should be brought here as the witness to a mur- 
der. If he will fight you, I will see you through. If he will 
not fight you, there needs no witness to your shooting him. 
You have no right, Olifibrd, to require this of me.” 

“ You are not a coward, William Edgerton ?” 

“ Coward !” he exclaimed, and his form rose to its fullest 


TOO LATE ! 3G1 

height, and his eye flashed out the fires of a manhood, which 
of late he had not often shown. 

“Coward! No! Do I not tell you shoot? I do not fear 
death. Nay, let me say to you, Clifford, I long for it.' Ijife 
has been a long torture to me — is still a torture. It can not 
now be otherwise. Take it — you will see me smile in the 
death agony.” 

“ Hear me William Edgerton, and submit to my will. You 
know not half your wrong. You drove me from my home — 
my birthplace. When I was about to sacrifice you for your 

previous invasion of my peace in C , I looked on your old 

father, I heai-d the story of his disappointment — his sorrows — 
and you were the cause. I determined to spare you — to banish 
myself rather, in order to avoid the necessity of taking your 
life. You were not satisfied with having wrought this result. 
You have pursued me to the woods, where my cottage once 
more began to blossom with the fruits of peace and love. You 
trample upon its peace — you renew your indignities and per- 
fidies here. You drive me to desperation and fill my habitation 
with disgrace. Will you deny me then what I ask ? Will 
you refuse me the atonement — any atonement — which I may 
demand ?” 

“ No, Clifford !” he replied, after a pause in which he seemed 
subdued with shame and remorse. “ You shall have it as you 
wish. I will fight you. I am all that you declare. I am 
guilty of the wrong you urge against me. I knew not, till 

now, that I had been the cause of your flight from C . Had 

I known that !” 

Kingsley offered him the pistol. 

“ No !” he said, putting it aside. “ Not now ! I will give you 
this atonement this afternoon. At this moment I can not. T 
must write. I must make another atonement. Your claim for 
justice, Clifford, must not preclude my settlement of the claims 
of others.” 

“ Mine must have preference !” 

“ It shall ! The atonement which I propose to make shall 
be one of repentance. You would not deny me the melancholy 
privilege of saying a few last words to my wretched parents ?” 

“No! no! no!” 

k; 


362 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“ I thank yon, Clifford. Come for me at four to my lodgings 
— bring Mr. Kingsley with you. You will find me ready to 
atone, and to save you every unnecessary pang in doing so.” 

This ended our conference. Kingsley rode home with him, 
while, throwing myself upon the ground, I surrendered myself 
to such meditations as were natural to the moods which govern- 
ed me. They were dark and dismal enough. Edgerton had 
avowed his guilt. Could there be any doubt on the subject of 
my wife’s 1 He had made no sort of qualification in his avow- 
al of guilt, which might acquit her. He had evidently made 
his confession with the belief that I was already in possession 
of the whole truth. One hope alone remained — that my wife’s 
voluntary declaration would still be forthcoming. To that I 
clung as the drowning man to his last plank. When Kingsley 
and Edgerton first left me, I had resolved to waste the hours 
in the woods and not to return home until after my final meet- 
ing in the afternoon with the latter. It might be that I should 
not return home then, and in such an event I was not unwilling 
that my wife should still live, the miserable thing which she had 
made herself. But, with the still fond hope that she might 
speak, and speak in season, I now resolved to return at the 
usual dinner hour ; and, timing myself accordingly, I prolonged 
my wanderings through the woods until noon. I then set 
forward, and reached the cottage a little sooner than I had ex- 
pected. 

I found Julia in bed. She complained of headache and fever. 
She had already taken medicine — I sat beside her. I spoke 
to her in the tenderest language. I felt, at the moment when I 
feared to lose her for ever, that I could love nothing half so well. 
I spoke to her with as much freedom as fondness ; and, moment- 
ly expecting her to make the necessary revelation, I hung upon 
her slightest words, and hung upon them only to be disappointed. 

The dinner hour came. The meal was finished. I returned 
to the chamber, and once more resumed my place beside her on 
the couch. I strove to inspire her with confidence — to awaken 
her sensibilities — to beguile her to the desired utterance, bu". 
in vain. Of course I could give no hint whatsoever of the 
knowledge which I had obtained. After tliat, her confossioii 


TOO LATE! 


363 


would have been no longer voluntary, and could no longer have 
been credited. 

Time sped — too rapidly as I thought. Though anxious for 
vengeance, I loved her too fondly not to desire to delay the 
minutes in the earnest expectation that she would speak at 
last. She did not. The hour approached of my meeting with 
Edgerton ; and then I felt that Edgerton was not the only 
criminal. 

Mrs. Porterfield just then brought in some warm tea, and 
placed it on the table at the bed head. After a few moments’ 
delay, she left us alone together. The eyes of my wife were 
averted. The vial of prussic acid stood on the same table with 
the tea. I rose from the couch, interposed my person between 
it and the table — and, taking up the poison, deliberately pour- 
ed three drops into the beverage. I never did anything more 
firmly. Yet I was not the less miserable, because I was most 
firm. My nerve was that of the executioner who carries out a 
just judgment. This done, I put the vial into my pocket. 
Julia then spoke to me. I turned to her with eagerness. I was 
prepared to cast the vessel of tea from the window. It was 
my hope that she was about to speak, though late, the neces- 
sary truths. But she only called to me to know if I had been 
to my office during the morning. 

“ Not since nine o’clock,” was my answer. “ Why ?” 

“Nothing. But are you going to your office now, dear 
husband ?” 

“ Not directly. I shall possibly be there in the course of the 
afternoon. What do you wish 1 Why do you ask V' 

“ Oh, nothing,” she replied ; “ but I will tell you to-morrow 
why I ask.” 

“To-morrow! — tell me now, if it be anything of moment. 
Now ! now is the appointed time I” The serious language of 
Scripture became natural to me in the agonizing situation in 
which I stood. 

“ No I no 1 to-morrow will do. I will not gratify your curi- 
osity. You are too curious, husband ;” and. she turned from 
me, smiling, upon the couch. 

I felt that what she might tell me to-morrow could have 
nothing to do with the affair between herself and Ed^e.-ton. 


8(U CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

That could be no object for jest and merriment. I turned 
from her slowly, with a feeling at my heart which was not ex- 
actly madness — for I knew then what I was doing — but it was 
just the feeling to make me doubtful how long I should be se- 
cure from madness. ' 

To-morrow will not do,” I muttered to myself as I descend- 
ed the stairs. “Too late! — too late!” 


SUICIDE. 


365 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

SUICIDE. 

From the cottage I proceeded to Kingsley’s. He was iu 
readiness, and waiting me. We drove directly to Edgerton’s 
lodging-house, the appointed hour of four being at hand. 
Kingsley only alighted from the carriage, and entered the 
dwelling. He was absent several minutes. When he returned, 
he returned alone. 

“ Edgerton is either asleep or has gone out. His room-door 
is locked. The landlord called and knocked, but received no 
answer. He lacks manliness, and I suspect has fled. The 
steamboat went at two.” 

“Impossible!”! exclaimed, leaping from the carnage. “I 
know Edgerton better. I can not think he would fly, after the 
solemn pledge he gave me.” 

“ You have only thought too well of him always,” said the 
other, as we entered the house. 

“ Let us go to the room together,” I said to the landlord. “ I 
fear something wrong.” 

“ Well, so do I,” responded the publican. “ The poor gentle- 
man has been looking very badly, and sometimes gets into a 
strange wild taking, and then he goes along seeing nobody. 
Only last Saturday I said to my old woman, as how I thought 
everything warn’t altogether right Acre,” — and the licensed 
sinner touched his head with his fore-finger, himself looking 
the very picture of well-satisfied sagacity. We said nothing, 
but leaving the eloquence to him, followed him up to Edgerton’s 
chamber. I struck the door thrice with the butt end of my 
whip, then called his name, but without receiving any answer. 


866 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Endeavoring to look through the key-hole, I discovered the key 
on the inside, and within the lock. I then immediately conjec- 
tured the truth. William Edgerton had committed suicide. 

And so it was. We burst the door, and found him suspended 
by a silk handkerchief to a beam that traversed the apartment. 
He had raised himself upon a chair, which he had kicked over 
after the knot had been adjusted. Such a proceeding evinced 
the most determined resolution. 

We took him down with all despatch, but life had already 
been long extinct. He must have been hanging two hours. 
His face was perfectly livid — his eyeballs dilated — his mouth 
distorted — but the neck remained unbroken. He had died by 
sujffocation. I pass over the ordinary proceedings — the conster- 
nation, the clamor, the attendance of the grave-looking gen- 
tlemen with lancet and lotion. They did a great deal, of course, 
in doing nothing. Nothing could be done. Then followed 
the “ crowner’s” inquest. A paper, addressed to the landlord, 
was submitted to them, and formed the burden of their report. 

“ I die by my own hands,” said this document, “ that I may 
lose the sense of pain, bodily and mental. I die at peace with 
the world. It has never wronged me. I am the source of my 
own sorrows, as I am the cause of my own death. I will not 
say that I die sane. I am doubtful on that head. I am sure 
that I have been the victim of a sort of madness for a very 
long time. This has led me to do wrong, and to meditate wrong 
— has made me guilty of many things, which, in my better mo- 
ments of mind and body, I should have shrunk from in horror. 
I write this that nobody may be suspected of sharing in a deed 
the blame of which must rest on my head only.” 

Then followed certain apologies to the landlord for having 
made his house the scene of an event so shocking. The same 
paper also conveyed certain presents of personal stuff to the 
same person, with thanks for his courtesy and attention. An 
adequate sum of money, paying his bill, and the expenses of his 
funeral, was left in his purse, upon the paper. 

Kingsley assumed the final direction of these affairs ; and 
having seen everything in a fair way for the funeral, which "was 
appointed to take place the next morning, he hurried me away 
to his lodging-house. 


CONFESSION OP EDGERTON. 


^07 


OHAPTEE L. 

CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 

Wh EN within his chamber, he carefully fastened the door 
and placed a packet in my hands. 

“ This is addressed to you,’* he said. “ I found it on the 
table with other papers, and seeing the address, and fearing 
that if the jury laid eyes on it, they might insist on knowing 
its contents, I thrust it into my pocket and said nothing about 
it there. Eead it at your leisure, while I smoke a cigar below.” 

He left me, and I opened the seal with a sense of misgiving 
and apprehension for which I could not easily account. The 
outer packet was addressed to myself. But the envelope con- 
tained several other papers, one of which was addressed to his 
father; another — a small billet, unsealed — bore the name of 
my wife upon it. 

“ That,” I inly muttered, “ she shall never read !” 

An instant after, I trembled with a convulsive horror, as the 
demon who had whispered in my ears so long, seemed to say, 
in mocking accents : — 

“Shall not! Ha! ha! She can not! can not !” and then 
the fiend seemed to chuckle, and I remembered the insuppiessi- 
ble anguish of Othello’s apostrophe, to make all its eloquence 
my own. I murmured audibly : — 

“ My wife ! my wife ! What wife ? — I have no wife ! 

Oh, insupportable — oh, heavy hour !” 

My eyes were blinded. My face sunk down upon the table, 
and a cold shiver shook my frame as if I had an ague. But I 
recovered myself when I remembered the wrongs I had endur- 
ed — her guilt and the guilt of Edgerton. I clutched the papers 
brushed the big drops from my forehead, and read as follows : — 


8G8 


CONFESSION, OR THE RLTND HEART. 


“Clifford, I save yon guiltless of niy deatl). You would be 
less happy were luy blood upon your bands, for, though I de- 
serve to die by them, I know your nature too well to believe 
that you would enjoy any malignant satisfaction at the perform- 
ance of so sad a duty. Still, I know that this is no atonement. 
I have simply ceased from persecuting you and the angelic 
woman, your wife. But how shall I atone for the tortures and 
annoyances of the past, inflicted upon you both? Never! 
never ! I perish without hope of forgiveness, though, here, alone 
with God, in the extreme of mortal humility, I pray for it ! 

“ Perhaps, you know all. From what escaped you this 
morning, it would seem so. You knew of my madness when in 

C ; you know that it pursued you here. Nothing then 

remains for me to tell. I might simply say all is true ; but that, 
in the confession of my guilt and folly, each particular act of 
sin demands its own avowal, as it must be followed by its own 
bitter agony and groan. 

“ My passion for your wife began soon after your marriage. 
Until then I had never known her. You will acquit me of any 
deliberate design to win her affections. I strove, as well as I 
could, to suppress my own. But my education did not fit me 
for such a stniggle. The indulgence of fond parents had grati- 
fied all my wishes, and taught me to expect their gratification. 
I could not subdue my passions even when they were unac- 
companied by any hopes. Without knowing my own feelings, 
I approached your wife. Our tastes were similar, and these 
furnished the legitimate excuse for frequently bringing us to- 
gether. The friendly liberality of your disposition enlarged 
the privileges of the acquaintance, and, without meaning it at 
first, I abused them. I sought your dwelling at unsuitable 
periods. Unconsciously, I did so, just at those periods when 
you were most likely to be absent. I first knew that my course 
was wrong, by discovering the unwillingness which I felt to en- 
counter you. This taught me to know the true nature of my 
sentiments, but without enforcing the necessity of subduing 
them. I did not seek to subdue them long. I yielded myself 
up, with the recklessness of insanity, to a passion whose very 
sweetness had the effect to madden. 

“ My fondness for your wife was increased by pity. You 


CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 


3G9 


neglected her. I was at first iiuligiiaiit and hated you accor- 
dingly. But T became glad of your neglect for two reasons. 
It gave me the opportunities for seeing her which I desired ; 
and I felt persuaded with a vain folly, that nothing could he 
more natural than that she would make a comparison, favoiahle 
of course to myself, between my constant solicitude and atten- 
tion and your ungenerous abandonment. But I was mistaken. 
The steady virtue of the wife revenged the wrong which, with- 
out deliberately intending it, I practised against the husband. 
When my attentions became apparent, she received me with 
marked coolness and reserve ; and finally ceased to frequent the 
atelier, which, while art alone was my object, yielded, I think, 
an equal and legitimate pleasure to us both. 

“ I saw and felt the change, but had not the courage to dis- 
continue my persecutions. My passion, and the tenacity with 
which it enforced its claims, seemed to increase with every 
difficulty and denial. The strangeness of your habits facili- 
tated mine. Almost nightly I visited your house, and though I 
could not but see that the reserve of your wife now rose into 
something like hauteur, yet my infatuation was so great that 1 
began to fancy this appearance to be merely such a disguise as 
Prudence assumes in order to conceal its weaknesses, and dis- 
courage the invader whom it can no longer baffle. With this 
impression I hurried on to the commission of an offence, the 
results of which, though they did not quell my desires, had the 
effect of terrifying them, for some time at least, into partial 
submission. Would to God, for all our sakes, that their sub- 
mission had been final ! 

“You remember the ball at Mrs. Delaney’s marriage? I 
waltzed once with your wife that evening. She refused to 
waltz a second time. The privileges of this intoxicating dance 
are such as could be afforded by no other practice in social com- 
munion — the lady still preserving the reputation of virtue. I 
need not say with what delight I employed these privileges. 
The pressure of her arm and waist maddened me ; and when 
the hour gi-ew late, and you did not appear, Mrs. Delaney coun- 
selled me to tender my carriage for the purpose of conveying 
her home. I did so ; — it was refused ; but, through the urgent 
suggestions of her mother, it was finally accepted. 1 assisted 

IG* 


370 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


her to the carriage, immediately followed, and took my place 
beside her. She was evidently annoyed, and drew herself up 
with a degree of lofty reserve, which, under other cirumstances, 
and had I been less excited than I was, by the events of the 
evening, would have discouraged my presumption. It did not. 
I proceeded to renew those liberties which I had taken during 
the dance. I passed my arm about her waist. She repulsed 
me with indignation, and insisted upon my setting her down 
where we were, in the unfrequented street, at midnight. This 
I refused. She threatened me with your anger ; and when, still 
deceiving myself on the subject of her real feelings, I proceed- 
ed to other liberties, she dashed her hand through the windows 
of the coach, and cried aloud for succor. This alarmed me. I 
promised her forbearance, and finally set her down, very much 
agitated, at the entrance of your dwelling. She refused my 
assistance to the house, but fell to the ground before reaching 
it. That night her miscarriage ensued, and my passions for a 
season were awed into inactivity, if not silence. 

Still, I could not account for her forbearance to reveal every- 
thing to you. You were still kind and affectionate to me as 
ever. I very well knew that had she disclosed the secret, you 
were not the man to submit to such an indignity as that of which 
I had been guilty. It seems — so I infer from what you said 
this morning — that you knew it all. If you did, your forbear- 
ance was equally unexpected and merciful. Believing that she 
had kept my secret, my next conclusion was inevitable. ‘ She is 
not altogether insensible to the passion she inspires. Her 
strength is in her virtues alone. Her sympathies are clearly 
mine !’ l^hese conclusions emboldened me. I haunted your 
house nightly with music. Sheltered beneath your trees, I 
poured forth the most plaintive strains which I could extort 
from my flute. Passion increased the effect of art. I strove 
at no regular tunes ; I played as the mood prompted ; and felt 
myself, not unfrequently, weeping over my own strange, irreg- 
ular melodies. 

“ Your sudden determination to remove prevented the renew- 
al of my persecutions. I need not say how miserable I was 
made, and how much I was confounded by such a determination. 
Explained by yourself this morning, it is now easily understood ; 


CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 


871 


but, ignorant then of the discoveries you had made — ignorant 
of your merciful forbearance toward my unhappy parents — for 
I can regard your forbearance with respect to myself as arising 
only from your consideration of them — it was unaccountable 
that you should give up the prospect of fortune and honors, 
which success, in every department of your business, seemed 
certainly to secure you. 

“ The last night — the eve of your departure from C , I 

resumed my place among the trees before your dwelling. Here 
I played and wandered with an eye ever fixed upon your win- 
dows. While I gazed, I caught the glimpse of a figure that 
buried itself hurriedly behind the folds of a curtain. I could 
suppose it to be one person only. I never thought of you. 
Urged by a feeling of desperation, which took little heed of con- 
sequences, I clambered up into the branches of a pride of India, 
which brought me within twenty feet of the window. I dis- 
tinctly beheld, the curtain ruffled by the sudden motion of some 
one behind it. I was about to speak — to say — no matter what. 
The act would have been madness, and such, doubtless, would 
have been the language. I fortunately did not speak. A few 
moments only had elapsed after this, when I heard a few brief 
words, spoken in her voice, from the same window. The words 
were few, and spoken in tones which denoted the great agitation 
of the speaker. These apprized me of my danger. 

* Fly, madman, for your life ! My husband is on the stairs.* 

“ Her person was apparent. Her words could not be mistaken 
though spoken in faint, feeble accents. At the same moment I 
heard the lower door of the dwelling unclose, and without 
knowing what I did or designed, I dropped from the tree to the 
ground. To my great relief, you did not perceive me. I was 
fortunately close to the fence, and in the deepest shadow of the 
tree. You hurried by, within five steps of me, and jumped the 
fence, evidently thinking to find me in the next enclosure. 
Breathing freely and thankfully after this escape, I fled im- 
mediately to the little boat in which I usually made my ap- 
proaches to your habitation on such occasions ; and was in the 
middle of the lake, and out of sight, long before you had given 
over your fruitless pursuit. The next day you left the city, 
and I remained, the wasted and wasting monument of pas- 


.^72 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

slons which had been as profitlessly as they were criminally 
exercised. 

“ You were gone ; — you had borne with you the object of my 
devotion ; but the passion remained and burnt with no less 
frenzy than before. You were not blind to the effect of this 
frenzy upon my health and constitution. You saw that I was 
consuming with a nameless disease. Perhaps you knew the 
cause and the name, and your departure may have been prompt- 
ed by a sentiment of pity for myself, in addition to that which 
you felt for my unhappy parents. If this be so — and it seems 
probable — it adds something to the agony of life — it will as- 
sist me in the work of atonement — it will better reconcile me 
to the momentary struggle of death. 

My ill health increased with the absence of the only object 
for whom health was now desirable. To see her again — to the 
last — for I now knew that that last could not be very remote 
— was the great desire of my mind. Besides, strange to say, a 
latent hope was continually rising and trembling in my soul. 
I still fancied that I had a place in the affections of your wife. 
You will naturally ask on what this hope was founded. I 
answer, on the supposition that she had concealed from you the 
tnith on the subject of my presumptuous assault upon her; and 
on those words of warning by which she had counselled me to 
fly from your pursuit on that last night before you left the city. 
These may not be very good reasons for such a hope, but the 
faith of the devotee needs but slight supply of aliment ; and the 
fanaticism of a flame like mine needs even less. A whisper, a 
look, a smile — nay, even a frown — has many a time prompted 
stronger convictions than this, in wiser heads, and firmer hearts 
than mine. 

“ My father counselled me to travel, and I was only too glad 
to obey his suggestions. He prescribed the route, but I deceived 
him. Once on the road, I knew but one route that could do me 
good, or at least afford me pleasure. I pursued the object of 
my long devotion. Here your conduct again led me astray. I 
found you still neglectful of your wife. Still, you received me 
as if I had been a brother, and thus convinced me that Julia 
had kept my secret. In keeping it thus long I now fancied it 
had become hers. I renewed my devotions, but with as little 


CONFESSION OF EDGERTON. 


873 


profit as before. She maintained the most rigid distance, and I 
grew nervous and feeble in consequence of the protracted 
liomage which I paid, and the excitement which followed from 
this homage. You had a proof of this nervousness and excite- 
ment in the incident which occurred while crossing the stream- 
let. I extended her my hand to assist her over, and scarcely 
had her fingers touched mine, when I felt a convulsion, and 
sunk, fainting and hopelessly into the stream * Conscious of 
nothing besides, I was yet conscious of her screams. This 
tender interest in my fate increased my madness. It led to a 
subsequent exhibition of it which at length fully opened my 
eyes to the enormity of my offence. 

“ You blindly as I then thought, took me to your dwelling as 
if I had been a brother. Ah ! why? If I was mad, Clifford, 
your madness was not less than mine. It was the blindest 
madness if not the worst. The progress of my insanity was 
now more rapid than ever. I fancied that I perceived signs of 
something more than coldness between yourself and wife. I 
fancied that you frowned upon her ; and in the grave, sad, 
speaking looks which she addressed to you, I thought I read 
the language of dislike and defiance. My own attentions to 
her were redoubled whenever an opportunity was afforded me; 
but this was not often. I saw as little of her while living in 
your cottage as I had seen before, and, but for the good old lady, 
Mrs. Porterfield, I should probably have been even less blessed 
by her presence. She perceived my dullness, and feeble health, 
and dreaming no ill, insisted that your wife should assist in be- 
guiling me of my weariness. She set us down frequently at 
chess, and loved to look on and watch the progress of the game. 

“ She did not always watch, and last night, while we played 
together, in a paroxysm of madness, I proceeded to those liber- 
ties which I suppose provoked her to make the revelation which 
she had so long forborne. My impious hands put aside the 
board, my arms encircled her waist ; while, kneeling beside her, 
I endeavored to drag her into my embrace. She repulsed me ; 
smote me to her feet with her open palm ; and spurning me 

* An incident somewhat similar to this occurs in the Life of Petrarch, as 
triven by Mrs. Dobson, but the precise facts are not remembered, and I have 
not the volume by me. 


874 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLINP HEART. 


where I lay grovelling, retired to her chamber. I know not 
what I said — I know not what she answered — yet the tones 
of her voice, sharp with horror and indignation, are even now 
ringing in my ears ! 

“ Clifford, I have finished this painful naiTation. I have 
cursed your home with bitterness, yet I pray you not to curse 
me ! Let me implore you to ask for merciful forbearance from 
her, to whom I feel I have been such a sore annoyance — too 
happy if I have not been also a curse to her. What I have 
written is the truth — sadly felt — solemnly spoken — God alone 
being present while I write, while death lingers upon the thresh- 
old impatient till I shall end. I leave a brief sentence, 
which you may or may not, deliver to your wife. You will 
send the letter to my father. You will see me buried in some 
holy enclosure ; and if you can, you will bury with my uncon- 
scious form, the long strifes of feeling which I have made you 
endure, and the just anger which I have awakened in your 
bosom. Farewell ! — and may the presiding spiiit of your home 
hereafter, be peace and love !” 


DOUBTS — SUMMONS. 


376 


CHAPTER LI. 

DOUBTS — SUMMONS. 

The billet which was addressed to my wife was in the follow- 
ing language : — 

“ Lady, on the verge of the grave, having sincerely repented 
of the offence I have given you, I implore you to pity and to 
pardon. A sense of guilt and shame weighs me down to earth. 
You can not apply a harsher judgment to my conduct than I 
feel it deserves ; but I am crushed already. You will not tram- 
ple the prostrate. In a few hours my body will be buried in 
the dust. My soul is already there. But, though writhing, I 
do not curse ; and still loving, I yet repent. In my last mo- 
ments I implore you to forgive ! forgive ! forgive !” 

This was all, and I considered the two documents with keen 
and conflicting feelings. There was an earnestness — a sincer- 
ity about them, which I could not altogether discredit. He had 
freely avowed his own errors ; but he had not spoken for hers. 
I did not dare to admit the impression which he evidently 
wished to convey of her entire innocence, not only from the 
practices, but the very thoughts of guilt. It is in compliance 
with a point of honor that the professed libertine yet endeavors 
to excuse and save the partner of his wantonness. In this light 
I regarded all those parts of his narrative which went to exten- 
uate her conduct. There was one part of her conduct, indeed, 
which, as it exceeded his ability to account for, was beyond his 
ability to excuse — namely, her strange concealment of his in- 
solence. This was the grand fault which, it appeared to me, 
was conclusive of all the rest. It was now my policy to believe 
in this fault wholly. If I did not, where was I ? what was my 
condition ? — my misery ? 

I sat brooding, with these documents open before me on the 
table, when Kingsley tapped at the door. I bade him enter. 


376 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


and put the papers in his hands. He read them in silence, laid 
them down without a word, and looked me with a grave com- 
posure in the face. 

“What do you think of it?” I demanded. 

“ That he speaks the truth,” he replied. 

“ Yes, no doubt — so far as he himself is concerned.” 

“ I should think it all true.” 

“ Indeed ! I think not.” 

“ Why do you doubt, and what ?” 

“ I doubt those portions in which he insists upon my wife’s 
integrity.” 

“ Wherefore ?” 

“ There are many reasons ; the principal of which is her sin- 
gular concealment of the truth. She suffers a strange man to 
offend her virtue with the most atrocious familiarities, and says 
nothing to her husband, who, alone, could have redressed the 
wrong and remedied the impertinence.” 

“ That certainly is a staggering fact.” 

“ According to his own admission, she warns him to fly from 
the wrath of her husband, to which his audacity had exposed 
him — warns him, in her night-dress, and from the window of 
her chamber.” 

“ True, true ! I had forgotten that.” 

“Look at all the circumstances. He haunts the house — ac- 
cording to his own showing, persecutes her with attentions, 
which are so marked, that, when he finds her husband ignorant 
of them, leads him to the conclusion — which is natural — that 
they are not displeasing to the wife. He avails himself of the 
privileges of the waltz, at the marriage of Mrs. Delaney, to 
gratify his lustful anticipations. He presses her arm and waist 

with his d d fingers. Hides home with her, and, according 

to his story, takes other liberties, which she baffles and sets 
aside. But, mark the truth. Though she requires him to set 
her down in the street — though she makes terms for his for- 
bearance — a wife making terms with a libertine — yet he evi- 
dently sees her into the house, and when she is taken sick, hur- 
ries for the mother and the physician. He tells just enough of 
the story to convict himself, but suppresses everything which 
may convict her. How know I that this resistance in the car- 


DOUBTS — SUMMONS. 


377 


riage was more than a sham ? How know I that he did not 
attend her in the house ? That they did not dabble together 
on their way through the dark piazza — along the stairs? — 
Nay, what proof is there that he did not find his way, with pol- 
luting purpose, into the very chamber? — that chamber, from 
which, not three weeks after, she bade him fly to avoid my 
wrath ! What makes her so precious of his life — the life of 
one who pursues her with lust and dishonor — if she does not 
burn with like passions? But there is more.” 

Here I told him of the letter of Mrs. Delaney, in which that 
permanent beldame counsels her daughter, less against the pas- 
sion itself, than against the imprudent exhibition of it. It was 
clear that the mother had seen what had escaped my eyes. It was 
clear that the mother was convinced of the attachment of the 
daughter for this man. Now, the attachment being shown, what 
followed from the concealment of the indignities to which Ed- 
gcrton had subjected her, but that she was pleased with them, 
and did not feel them to be such. These indignities are perse- 
vered in — are frequently repeated. Our footsteps are followed 
from one country to another. The husband’s hours of absence 
are noted. His departure is the invariable signal for them to 
meet. They meet. His hands paddle with hers ; his arms 
grasp her waist. True, we are told by him, that she resists ; 
but it is natural that he should make this declaration. Its truth 
is combated by the fact that,, of these insults, she says nothing. 
That fact is everything. That one fact involves all the rest. 
The woman who conceals such a history, shares in its guilt. 

Kingsley assented to these conclusions. 

“ Yet,” he said, “ there is an air of truthfulness about these 
papers — this narrative — that I should be pleased to believe, 
even if I could not ; — that I should believe for your sake, Clif- 
ford, if for no other reason. Honestly, after all you have said 
and shown — with all the unexplained and perhaps unexplaina- 
ble particulars before me, making the appearances so much 
against her — I can not think your wife guilty. I should be 
sorry to think so.” 

“ I should now be sorry to think otherwise,” I said huskily. 
I thought of that poisonous draught. I thought with many mis- 
givings, and trembled where I sat. 


378 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


“You surprise me to hear you speak so. Surely, Clifford, 
you love your wife V’ 

“ Love her !^’ I exclaimed ; I could say no more. My sobs 
choked my utterance. 

“ Nay, do not give up,” he said tenderly. “ Be a man. All 
will go well yet. The facts are anything but conclusive. These 
papers have a realness about them, which have their weight 
against any suspicions, however strong. Remember, these are 
the declarations of a dying man ! Surely, all minor considera- 
tions of policy would give way at such a moment to the all-im 
portant necessity of speaking the truth. Besides, there is one 
consideration alone, to which we have made no reference, which 
yet seems to me full of weight and value. Edgerton could 
scarcely have been successful in his designs upon your wife. 
He was in fact dying of the disappointment of his passions. 
They could not have been gratified. Success takes an exulting 
aspect. He was always miserable and wo-begone — always de- 
sponding, sad, unhappy, from the first moment when this pas- 
sion began, to the last.” 

“ Guilt, guilt, nothing but guilt !” 

“ No, Clifford, no ! — The guilt that works so terribly upon 
conscience as to produce such effects upon the frame, inevitably 
leads to repentance. Now, we find that Edgerton pursued his 
object until he was detected.” 

I shook my head. 

“ Do not steel yourself against probabilities, my dear fellow,” 
said Kingsley. 

“ Proofs against probabilities always !” 

“ No ! none of these are proofs except the papers you have 
in your hands, and the imperfect events which you witnessed. 
I am so much an admirer of your wife myself, that I am ready 
to believe this statement against the rest ; and to believe that, 
however strange may have been her conduct in some respects, 
it will yet be explained in a manner which shall acquit her of 
misconduct. Believe me, Clifford, think with me ” 

“ No ! no ! I can not — dare not ! She is a ” 

“ Do not ! Do not ! No harsh words, even were it so ! She 
has been your wife. She should still be sacred in your eyes, 
as one who has slept upon your bosom.” 


DOUBTS — SUMMONS. 


879 


“ A traitress all the while, dreaming of the embraces of an- 
other.” 

“ Clifford, what can this mean 1 You are singularly invet- 
erate.” 

“ Should I not be so ? Am I not lost — abandoned — wrecked 
on the high seas of my hope — my fortunes scattered to the 
winds — my wealth, the jewel which I prized beyond all beside, 
which was worth the whole, gone down, swallowed up, and the 
black abyss closed over it for ever V* 

“ We are not sure of this.” 

“ I am !” 

“No! no!” 

“ I am ! Though she be innocent, who shall rid me of the 
doubt, the fear, the ineradicable suspicion ! That blackens all 
my sunlight ; that poisons all my peace. I can never know 
delight. Nay, though you proved her innocent, it is now too 
late. Kingsley, by this time I have no wife !” 

“ Ha ! Surely, Clifford, you have not ” 

“Hark! Some one knocks! Again! — again! — I under- 
stand it. I know what it means. They are looking for me. 
She is dead or dying. I tell you it is quite in vain that you 
should argue. Above all, do not seek to prove her innocent.” , 

The knocking without increased. He seized my arm as T 
was going forward, and prevented me. 

“ Compose yourself,” he said, thrusting me into a chair. “ Re- 
main here |;ill I return. I will see what is wanted.” 

But I followed him, and reached the door almost as soon as 
himself. It was as I expected. I had been sent for. My wife 
was dangerously ill. Such was the tenor of the message. More 
I could not learn. The servant had been an hour in search of . 
me. Had sought me at the office and in other places which I 
had been accustomed to frequent ; and I felt that after so long 
a delay, there was no longer need for haste. Still, I was about 
to depart with hasty footsteps. The servant was already dis- 
missed. Kingsley grasped my arm. 

“ I will go along with you,” he said ; and as we went, he 
spoke, in low accents, to the following effect : — 

“ I know not what you have done, Clifford ; and there is no 
need that I should know. Keep your secret. I do not think 


380 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


the worse of you that you have been maddened to crime. Let 
the same desperation nerve you now to sufficient composure. 
Beware of what you say, lest these people suspect you.” 

“ And what if they do ? Think you, Kingsley, that I fear ? 
No ! no ! Life has nothing now. I lost fear, and hope, and 
everything in her.” 

But may she not live 

“No, I think not; the poison is most deadly. Though, even 
if she lives, my loss would not be less. She ceased to live for 
me the moment that she began to live for another !” 


death. 


881 


CHAPTER LII. 

DEATH. 

Nothing more was said until we reached the cottage. Mrs. 
Porterfield and the physician met us at the entrance. We had 
come too late ! 

She was dead. They had found her so when they despatched 
the servant in quest of me ; but they were not certain of the 
fact, and the servant was instructed to say she was only very 
ill. The physician was called in as soon as possible ; but had 
declared himself, as soon as he came, unable to do anything for 
her. He had bled her; and, before our arrival, had already 
pronounced upon her disease. It was apoplexy ! 

“ Apoplexy !” I exclaimed involuntarily. Kingsley gave me 
a look. 

“ Yes, sir, apoplexy,” continued the learned gentleman. 
“ She must have had several fits. It is evident that she was 
conscious after the first, for she appears to have endeavored to 
reach the door. She was found at the entrance, lying upon the 
floor. Wlien I saw her, she must have been lifeless a good 
hour.”* 

He added sundry reasons, derived from her appearance, which 
he assured us were conclusive on this subject; but to these I 
gave little heed. I did not stop to listen. I hurried to the 
chamber, closed the door, and was alone with my victim, with 
my wife ! 

My victim ! — my wife ! 

* The reader will be reminded of the melancholy details in the case of Miss 
Landon — L. E. L. — whose fate is still a mystery. 


382 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I stood above her inanimate form. How lovely in death — 
but, oh ! how cold ! I looked upon her pale, transparent cheeks 
and forehead, through Avhich the blue lines of veins, that were 
pulseless now, gleamed out, showing the former avenues of the 
sweet and blessed life. I was disarmed of my anger while I 
gazed. I bent down beside her, took the rigid fingers of her 
hand in mine, and pressed my lips upon the bloodless but still 
beautiful forms of hers. 

I remembered her youth and her beauty — the glowing prom- 
ise of her mind, and the gentle temper of her heart. I remem- 
bered the dear hours of our first communion — how pure were 
our delights — how perfect my felicity. How we moved to- 
gether as with one being only — beside the broad streams of our 
birthplace — under the shelter of shady pines — morning, and 
noon, and in the star-lighted night — never once dreaming that 
an hour like this would come ! 

And she seemed so perfect pure, as she was so perfect lovely ! 
Never did I hear from her lips sentiment that was not — not 
only virtuous, but delicate and soft — not only innocent but true 
— not only true but fond! Alas! so to fall — so to yield her- 
self at last! To feel the groAvth of rank passions — to surren 
der her pure soul and perfect form to the base uses of lust — to 
be no better than the silly harlot, that, beguiled by her eager 
vanity, surrenders the precious jewel in her trust, to the first 
cunning sharper that assails her with a smiling lie ! 

Oh God ! how these convictions shook my frame ! I had no 
longer strength for thought or action. I was feebler than the 
child, who, lost in the wood, struggles and sinks at last, through 
sheer exhaustion, into sobbing slumber at the foot of the unfeel- 
ing tree. I did not sob. I had no tears. But at intervals, 
the powers of breathing became choked, and my struggles for 
relief were expressed in a groan which I vainly endeavored to 
keep down. The sense of desolation Avas upon me much more 
strongly than that of either crime or death. I did not so much 
feel that she was guilty, as that I Avas alone ! That, henceforth, 
I must for ever be alone. This was the terrible conviction ; — 
and oh ! how lone ! To lessen its pangs, I strove to recall the 
fault for Avhich she perished — to renew the recollection of those 
thousand small events, which, thrown together, had seemed to 


DEATH. 


883 


me mountains of rank and reeking evidence against her. But 
even my memory failed me in this effort. All this was a blank. 
The few imperfect and shadowy facts which T could recall seem- 
ed to me wholly unimportant in establishing the truth of what 
I sought to believe ; and I shuddered with the horrible doubt 
that she might be innocent ! If she w'ere indeed innocent, 
what am I ! 

With the desperate earnestness of the cast-away, who strives, 
in mid-ocean, for the only plank which can possibly retard his 
doom, did I toil to re-establish in my mind that conviction of her 
guilt which the demon in my soul had made so certain by his 
assurances before. Alas ! I had not only lost the wife of my 
bosom, but its fiend also. Vainly now did I seek to summon 
him back. Vainly did I call upon him to renew his arguments 
and proofs! He had fled — fled for ever; and I could fancy 
that I heard him afar off, chuckling, with hellish laughter, over 
the triumphant results of his malice. 

I know not how long I hung over that silent speaker. Her 
pale, placid countenance — her bloodless lips, that still seemed 
to smile upon me as they had ever done before; — and that 
eye of speaking beauty — only half closed — oh I what conclu- 
sive assurances did they seem to give of that innocence which 
it now seemed the worst impiety to doubt I 1 would have giv^en 
worlds — alas 1 how impotent is such a speech ! Death sets his seal 
upon hope, and love, and endeavor ; and the regrets of that child- 
ish precipitation which has obeyed the laws of passion only, are 
only so many mocking memorials of the blind heart, that jaundiced 
the face of truth, and distorted all the aspects of the beautiful. 

Once more I laughed — a vain hysterical laugh — the ex- 
pression of my conviction that I was self-doomed and desperate ; 
and, writhing beside the inanimate angel whom I then would 
have recalled, though with all her guilt — assuming all of it to 
have been true — to the arms that wantonly cast her off for ever 
— T grasped the cold senseless limbs in my embrace, and placed 
the drooping head once more upon the bosom where it could not 
long remain I What a weight ! The pulsation in my own 
heart ceased, and, with a shudder, I released the chilling form 
from my gi’asj), and found strength barely to compose the limbs 
once more in the bed beside me. 


384 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


I pass over the usual and unnecessary details. There was a 
show of inquiry of course ; hut the one word of the learned 
young gentleman in black silenced any further examination. It 
was shown to the inquest by Mrs. Porterfield that my wife had 
been sick — that she was suddenly foiind dead. The physician 
furnished the next necessary fact. I was not examined at all. 
I stood by in silence. I heard the verdict — “Death by apo- 
plexy” — with a sniile. I was not unwilling to state the truth. 
Had I been called upon I should have done so. At first I w'as 
about to proffer my testimony, but a single sentence from the 
lips of Kingsley, when I declared to him my purpose, silenced 
me : — 

“ If you are not afraid to declare your own act, you should 
at least scruple to denounce her shame ! She died your wife. 
Let that seal your tongue. The shame would be shared be- 
tween you ! You could only justify your crime by exposing 
hers !” 

With the stern strength of desperation I stood above the 
grave, and heard the heavy clod ring hollowly upon the cofl5n. 
And there closed two lives in one. My hopes were buried 
there as effectually as her unconscious form. 

Life is not breath simply. Not the capacity to move, and 
breathe, to act, eat, drink, sleep, and say, “ Thank God ! we 
have ate, drank, and slept!” The life of humanity consists in 
hope, love, and labor. In the capacity to desire, to affect, and 
to struggle. I had now nothing for which I could hope, nothing 
to love, nothing to struggle for ! 

Yes 1 life has something more : — endurance ! This is a part 
of the allotment. The conviction of this reneTved my strength- 
But it was the strength of desolation ! I had taken courage 
from despair! 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


385 


CHAPTER LITI. 

REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 

It must be remembered, that, in all this time — amidst all 
my agonies — my feelings of destitution and despair — I bad 
few or no doubts of the guilt of Julia Clifford. My sufferings 
arose from the love which I had felt — the defeat of my hopes 
and fortune — the long struggle of conflicting feelings, mortified 
pride, and disappointed enjoyment. Excited by the melancholy 
spectacle before me — beholding the form of her, once so beauti- 
ful — still so beautiful — whom I had loved with such an absorb- 
ing passion — whom I could not cease to love — suddenly cut 
off from life — her voice, which was so musical, suddenly hushed 
for ever — the tides of her heart suddenly stopped — and all the 
sweet waters of hope dried up in her bosom, and turned into 
bitterness and blight in mine — the force of my feelings got the 
better of my reason, and cruel and oppressive doubts of the 
justness of her doom overpowered my soul. But, with the 
subsiding of my emotions, under the stern feeling of resolve 
which came to my relief, and which my course of education en- 
abled me to maintain, my persuasions of her guilt were resumed, 
and I naturally recurred to the conclusions which had originally 
justified me to myself, in inflicting the awful punishment of 
death upon her. But I was soon to be deprived of this justifi- 
cation — to be subjected to the terrible recoil of all my feelings 
of justice, love, honor and manliness, in the new and over- 
whelming conviction, not only that I had been premature, but 
that she was innocent ! — innocent, equally of thought and deed, 
which could incur the reproach of impurity, or the punishment 
of guilt. 


38G 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


Three days had elapsed after her burial, when I re-opened 
and re-appeared in my office. I did not re-open it with any in- 
tention to resume my business. That was impossible in a place, 
where, at every movement, the grave of my victim rose, always 
green, in my sight. My purpose was to put my papers in order, 
transfer them to other parties, dispose of my effects, and depart 
with Kingsley to the new countries, of which he had succeeded 
in impressing upon me some of his own opinions. Not that 
these furnished for me any attractions. I was not persuaded by 
any customary arguments held out to the ambitious and the 
enterprising. It was a matter of small moment to me where I 
went, so that I left the present scene of my misery and over- 
throw. In determining to accompany him to Texas, no part of 
my resolve was influenced by the richness of its soil, or the 
greatness of its probable destinies. These, though importaut 
in the eyes of my friend, were as nothing in mine. In taking 
that route my object was simply, to go tciih him. Ke had 
sympathized with me, after a rough fashion of his own, the sin- 
cerity of which was more dear to me than the roughness was 
repulsive. He had witnessed my cares — he knew my guilt 
and my griefs — this knowledge endeared him to me more 
strongly than ever, and made him now more necessary to my 
affections than any other living object. 

I re-opened my office and resumed my customary seat at the 
table. But I sat only to ruminate upon things and thoughts 
which, following the track of memory, diverted my sight as well 
as my mind, from all present objects. I saw nothing before me, 
except vaguely, and in a sort of shadow. I had a hazy outline 
of books against the wall ; and a glimmering show of papers 
and bundles upon the table. I sat thus for some time, lost in 
painful and humiliating revery. Suddenly I caught a glimpse 
of a packet on the table, which I did not recollect to have seen 
before. It bore my name. I shuddered to behold it, for it was 
in the handwriting of my wife. This, then, was the writing 
upon which she had been secretly engaged, for so many days, 
and of which Mrs. Porterfield had given me the first intimation. 
I remembered the words of Julia when she assured me that it 
was intended for me — when she playfully challenged my curi- 
osity, and implored me to acknowledge an anxiety to know tlie 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OP JULIA. 


387 


contents. The pleading tenderness of her speech and manner 
now rose vividly to my recollection. It touched me more now 
— now that the irrevocable step had been taken — far more than 
it ever could have affected me then. Then, indeed, I remained 
unaffected save by the caprice of my evil genius. The demon 
of the blind heart was then uppermost. In vain now did I sum- 
mon him to my relief. Where was he ? Why did he not come ? 

I took up the packet with trembling fingers. My nervea 
almost failed me. My heart shrank and sank with painful pre- 
sentiments. What could this writing mean ? Of what had 
Julia Oliftbrd to write ? Her whole world’s experience was con- 
tained, and acquired, in my household. The only portion of 
this experience which she might suppose unknown to me was 
her intercourse with Edgerton. The conclusion then was 
natural that this writing related to this matter ; but, if natural, 
why had I not conjectured it before ? Why, when I first heard 
of it, had the conclusion not forced itself upon me as directly as 
it did now ] Alas ! it was clear to me now that I was then 
blind ; and with this clearness of sight my doubts increased j 
but they were doubts of myself, rather than doubts of her. 

It required an effort before I could recover myself sufficiently 
to break the seal of the packet. First, however, I rose and re- 
closed the office. Whatever might be the contents of the paper, 
to me it was the language of a voice from the grave. It con- 
tained the last words of one I never more should hear. The 
words of one whom I had loved as I could never love again. 
It was due to her, and to my own heart, that she should be 
heard in secret; — that her ^ords — whether in reproach or re- 
pentance — whether in love or ^corn — should fall upon mine 
ear without witness, in a silence as solemn as was that desolate 
feeling which now sat, like a spectre, brooding among the ruins 
of my heart. 

My pulses almost ceased to beat-^my respiration was impeded 
— my eyes swam — my senses reeled in dismay and confusion 
— as I read the following epistle. Too late ! too late ! Blind, 
blind heart ! And still I was not mad ! — No ! no ! — that would 
have been a mercy which I did not merit I — that would have 
been forgetfulness — utter oblivion of the wo which I can neve? 
cease to feel. 


888 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

THE LAST LETTER OF JULIA. 

“Husband, dear husband! 

“ I write to you in fear and trembling. T have striven to 
speak to you, more than once, but my tongue and strength have 
failed me. What I have to tell you is so strange and offensive, 
and will he to you so startling, that you will find it hard to 
believe me ; and yet, dear husband, there is not a syllable of it 
which is not true I If T knew that I were to die to-morrow I 
could with perfect safety and confidence make the same confes- 
sion which I make now. But I do not wish you to take what I 
say on trust; look into the matter yourself — not precipitately 
— above all, not angrily — and you will see that I say nothing 
here which the circumstances will not prove. Indeed, my 
wonder is that so much of it has remained unknown to you 
already. 

“ Husband, Mr. Edgerton deceives you — he has all along de- 
ceived you — he is neither your friend nor mine. I would call 
him rather the most dangerous enemy ; for he comes by stealth, 
and abuses confidence, and, like the snake in the fable, seeks to 
sting the very hand that has warmed him. I know how much 
this will startle yon, for I know how much you think of him, 
and love him, and how many are the obligations which you owe 
to his fatlier. But hear me to the end, and you will be convin- 
ced, as I have been, that, so far from your seeking his society 
and permitting his intimacy in our household, you would be 
justified in the adoption of very harsh measures for his expulsion 
— at least, it would become your duty to inform him that you 
can no longer suffer his visits. 

“To begin, then, dear husband, Mr. Edgerton has been bold 
enough to speak to me in such language, as was insulting iu 
him to utter, and equally painful and humiliating for mo to hear. 
He has done this, not once, nor tw’ice, nor thrice, but many 
times. You will ask why I have not informed you of this be- 
fore ; but I had several reasons for forbearing to do so, which I 
will relate in the proper places. I fancied that I could effectu- 
ally repel insult of this sort Avithout making you a party to it, 
for I feared the violence of your temper, and dreaded that the 
consequences might be bloodshed. I am only prompted to take 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OP JULIA. 


889 


a different course now, as I find that I was mistaken in this im- 
pression — and perceive that there is no hope of a remedy 
against the impertinence but by appealing to you for protection. 

“ It was not long after our marriage before the attentions of 
Mr. Edgerton became so particular as to annoy me ; and I con- 
sulted my mother on the subject, but she assured me that such 
were customary, and so long as you were satisfied I had no 
reason to be otherwise. I was not quite content with this as- 
surance, but did not know what other course to take, and there 
was nothing in the conduct of Mr. Edgerton so very marked 
and offensive as to justify me in making any communication to 
you. What offended me in his bearing was his fixed and con- 
tinued watchfulness — the great earnestness of his looks — the 
subdued tones of his voice when he spoke to me, almost falling 
to a whisper, and the unusual style of his language, which 
seemed to address itself to such feelings only as do not belong 
to the common topics of discourse. The frequency of his visits 
to the studio afforded him opportunities for indulging in these 
practices ; and your strange indifference to his approaches, and 
your equally strange and most unkind abandonment of my so- 
ciety for that of others, increased these opportunities, of which 
he scrupled not to take constant advantage. I soon perceived 
that he sought the house only at the periods when you were 
absent. He seemed always to know when this was the case ; 
and I noted the fact, particularly, that, if, on such occasions, you 
happened to arrive unexpectedly, he never remained long after- 
ward, but took his departure with an abruptness that, it seem- 
ed wonderful to me you should not have perceived. Conduct 
so strange as this annoyed rather than alarmed me ; and it made 
me feel wu-etched, perhaps, beyond any necessity for it, when I 
found myself delivered up, as it were, to such persecution, by 
the very person whose duty it was to preserve me, and whose 
own presence, which would have been an effectual protection, 
was so dear to me always. Do not suppose, dear Edward, that 
[ moan to reproach you. I do not know what may have been 
your duties abroad, and the trials which drew you sc much 
from home, and from the eyes of a wife who knows no dearer 
object of contemplation than the form of her husband. Men 
in business, I know, have a thousand troubles out of doors, 


390 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


whicli a generous sensibility makes them studious never tr) bring 
borne with them; and, knowing this, I determined to think 
lovingly of you always — to believe anything rather than that 
you would willingly neglect me ; — and, by the careful exercise 
of my thoughts and affections, as they should properly be 
exercised, so to protect my own dignity and your honor, as to 
spare you any trouble or risk in asserting them, and,, at the 
same time, to save both from reproach. 

“ But, though I think I maintained the most rigid reserve, as 
well of looks as of language, this unhappy young man con- 
tinued his persecutions. In order to avoid him, I abandoned 
my usual labors in the studio. From the moment when I saw 
that he was disposed to abuse the privileges of friendship, I 
yielded that apartment entirely to him, and invariably declined 
seeing him when he visited the house in the mornings. But I 
could not do this at evening ; and this became finally a most 
severe trial, for it so happened, that you now adopted a habit 
which left him entirely unrestrained, unless in the manner of his 
reception by myself. You now seldom remained at home of an 
evening, and thus deprived me of that natural protector whoso 
presence would have spared me much pain with which I will 
not distress you. Ah ! dearest husband, why did you leave me 
on such occasions ? Why did you abandon me to the two-fold 
affliction of combating the approaches of impertinence, at the 
very moment when I was suffering from the dreadful apprehen- 
sion that I no longer possessed those charms which had won me 
the affections of a husband. Forgive me ! My purpose is not 
to reproach, but to entreat you. 

“ I need not pass over the long period through which this 
persecution continued. Your indifference seemed to me to give 
stimulus to the perseverance of this young man. Numberless 
little circumstances combined to make me think that, from this 
cause, indeed, he drew somethii g like encouragement for his 
audacious hopes. The strength of your friendship for him 
blinded you to attentions which, it seemed to me, every eye 
must have seen but yours. I grew more and more alarmed ; 
and a second time consulted with my mother. Her written 
answer you will find, marked No. 1, with the rest of the enclo- 
sures in this envelope. Slie laughed at my apprehensions, in 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


391 


sisted that Mr. Edgerton had not transcended the customary 
privileges, and intimated, very plainly as you will see, that a 
wife can suffer nothing from the admiration of a person, aot her 
husband, however undisguised this admiration may be — pro- 
vided she herself shows none in return ; — an opinion with which 
I could not concur, for the conclusive reason that, whatever the 
world may think on such a subject, the object of admiration, if 
she has any true sensibilities, must herself suffer annoyance, as 
I did, from the special designation which attends such peculiar 
and marked attention as that to which I was subjected. My 
mother took much pains, verbally and in writing, as the within 
letters will show you, to relieve me from the feeling of disquiet 
under which I suffered, but without effect ; and I was fuither 
painfully afflicted by the impression, which her general tone of 
thought forced upon me, that her sense of propriety was so loose 
and uncertain that I could place no future reliance upon her 
counsels in relation to this or any kindred subject. Ah, Ed- 
ward ! little can you guess how lonely and desolate I felt, when, 
unable any longer to refer to her, I still did not dare to look 
to you. 

“ One opinion of hers, however, had very much alarmed me. 
You will find it expressed in the letter marked No. 3, in this 
collection. When I complained to her of the approaches of 
Mr. Edgerton, and declared my purpose of appealing to you if 
they were continued, she earnestly and expressly exhorted me 
against any such proceeding. She assured me that such a 
step would only lead to violence and bloodshed — remindea 
me of your sudden anger — your previous duel — and insisted 
that nothing more was necessary to check the impertinence 
than my own firmness and dignity. Perhaps this would 
have been enough, were it always practicable to maintain the 
reserve and coldness which was proper to effect this object, 
and, indeed, I could not but perceive that the effect was pro- 
duced in considerable degree by this course. Mr. Edgerton 
visited the house less frequently ; grew less impressive in his 
manner, and much more humble, until that painful and humili- 
ating night of my mother’s marriage. That night he asked me 
to dance with him. I declined ; but afterward he came to me 
accompanied by my mother. She whispered in my ears that I 


592 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


was liaisli ill my refusal, and called my attention to his wretch- 
ed appearance. Had I reflected upon it then, as I did after- 
ward, this very allusion would have been sufficient to have 
determined me not to consent ; — but I was led away by her 
suggestions of pity, and stood up with him for a cotillion. But 
the music changed, the set was altered, and the Spanish dance 
was substituted in its place. In the course of this dance, I 
could not deceive myself as to the degree of presumption which 
my partner displayed ; and, but for the appearance of the thing, 
and because I did not wish to throw the room into disorder, I 
would have stopped and taken my seat long before it was over. 
When I did take my seat, I found myself still attended by him, 
and it was with difficulty that I succeeded finally in defeating 
his perseverance, by throwing myself into the midst of a set of 
elderly ladies, where he could no longer distinguish me with 
his attentions. In the meantime you had left the room. You 
had deserted me. Ah ! Clifford, to what annoyance did your 
absence expose me that night ! To that absence, do we owe 
that I lost the only dear pledge of love that God had ever vouch- 
safed us — and you know how greatly my own life was perilled. 
Think not, dearest, that I speak this to reproach you ; and yet 
— could you have remained! — could you have loved, and 
longed to be and remain with me, as most surely did I long for 
your presence only and always — ah! how much sweeter had 
been our joys — how more pure our happiness — our faith — with 
now — perhaps, even now — the dear angel whom we then lost, 
living and smiling beneath our eyes, and linking our mutual 
hearts more and more firmly together than before ! 

“ That night, when it became impossible to remain longer 
without trespassing — when all the other guests had gone — I 
consented to be taken home in Mr. Edgerton’s carnage. Had 
I dreamed that Mr. Edgerton was to have been my companion, 
I should have remained all night before I would have gone with 
him, knowing what I knew’, and feeling the mortification which 
I felt. But my mother assured me that I w’as to have the car- 
riage to myself — it was she who had procured it; — and it w'as 
not until I was seated, and beheld him enter, that I had the 
least apprehension of such an intrusion. Edward ! it is with a 
feeling almost amounting to horror, that I am constrained to 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OP JULIA. 39^^ 

think that my mother not only knew of liis intention to 
company me, but that she herself suggested it. This, I say to 
you! You will find the reasons for my suspicions in the letter's 
which I enclose. It is a dreadful suspicion — at the expense ci 
cn o’s own mother ! I dare not believe in the dark malice which 
it implies. — I strive to think that she meant and fancied onl; 
gome pleasant mischief. 

1 shudder to declare the rest ! This man, your friend — he 
whom you sheltered in your bosom, and trusted beyond all 
others — whom you have now taken into your house with a 
blindness that looks more like a delusion of witchcraft than cf 
friendship — this impious man, I say, dared to wrap me in hi? 
embrace — dared to press his lips upon mine ! 

“My cheek even now burns as I write, and I must lay dov/r 
the pen because of my trembling I struggled from his graa; 
— I broke the window by my side, and cried for help from thi 
wayfarers. I cried for you ; 'Bu*; you did not answer ! 0'.’, 

husband ! where were you ? Why, why did you expose me to 
such indignities 1 

“ He was alarmed. He promised me forbearance ; and, con- 
vulsed with fright and fear, I found myself within our enclosure-^ 
I knew not how; but before I reached the cottage I became in- 
sensible, and knew nothing more until the pangs of laber 
subdued the more lasting pains of thought and recollection. 

“You resolved to leave our home — to go abroad among 
strangers, and Oh ! how I rejoiced at your resolution. It seem- 
ed to promise me happiness ; at least it promised me rescue and 
^•elief. I should at all events be free from the persecution of 
tojs man I dreaded the consequences, either to you or to him- 
,Jf, of the exposure of his insolence. I had resolved on 
naming it; and only hesitated, day by day, as my mother dwelt 
pon the dangers which would follow. And when you deter- 
mined on removal, it seemed to me the most fortunate provi- 
: ence, as it promised to spare me the necessity of making this 
'linful r^vrclation at ah. Surely, I thought, and my mother 
said, as this will put an effectual stop to his presumption, there 
/•'ill be no need to narrate what is already past. The only mo- 
in telling it at all wDuld be to prevent, not to punish : if 
prev .'‘lion is effected by other means, it is charity only to 
1 - 


89i 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


forbear the relation of matters which would breed hatred, and 
probably provoke strife. This made me silent ; and, full 
of new hope — tke hope that having discarded all your olo 
associates and removed from all your old haujits, you wcu/d 
become mine entirely — I felt a new strength in my fraro 
a new life in my breast, and a glow upon my cheeks as wIl- 
in my soul, which seemed a guaranty for a long and ha; j 
term of that love which had begun in my bosom with the tr zt 
moments of its childish consciousness and confidence. 

“ But one painful scene and hour I was yet compelled to en- 
dure the night before our departure. Mr. Edgerton came to 
play his flute under our window. I say Mr. Edgerton, but it 
was only by a sort of instinct that I fixed upon him as the 
musician. Perhaps it was because I knew not what other per- 
son to suspect. Frequently, before this night, had I heard ti 'c 
music ; but on this occasion he seemed to have approached more 
nearly to the dwelling ; and, indeed, I finally discovered that hs 
was actually beneath the China-tree that stood on the sou.h 
front of the cottage. I was asleep when the music began. He 
must have been playing for some time before I awakened. How 
I was awakened I know not ; but something disturbed me, and 
I then saw you about to leave the room stealthily. I heard 
your feet upon the stairs, and in the next moment I discovered 
one of your pistols lying upon the window-sill, just beneath my 
eyes. This alarmed me; a thousand apprehensions rushed into 
my brain ; all the suggestions of strife and bloodshed which Uiy 
mother had ever told me, filled my mind; and without knowirg 
exactly what I did or said, I called out to the musician to 11 
with all possible speed. He did so ; and after a delay which 
was to me one of the most cruel apprehension, you returned in 
safety. Whether you suspected, and what, I could not conjcc 
'ure; but if you had any suspicions of me, you did not seem t: 
entertain any of him, for you spoke of him afterward with cl.e 
same warm tone of friendship as before. 

“ That something in my conduct had not pleased you, I coulc 
see from your deportment as we travelled the next morning 
You were sad, and very silent and abstracted. This disa,y 
peared, however, and, day by day, my happiness, my hope, my 
confidence in you, in myself, in all things, increased — and V 


REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


305 


felt assured of realizing that perfect idea of felicity which I pro- 
posed to myself from the moment when you declared your pur- 
pose to emigrate. Were we not happy, husband — so happy at 

M , for weeks, for months — always, morning, noon, and 

night — until the reappearance of this false friend of yours 
Then, it seemed to me as if everything changed. Then, that 
other friend of yours — who, though he never treated me with 
aught but respect, I yet can call no friend of mine — Mr. 
Kingsley, drew you away again from your home — carried you 
wdth him to his haunts — detained you late and long, by night 
and day — and I was left once more exposed to the free and 
frequent familiarity of Mr. Edgerton. He renewed his former 
habits ; his looks were more presuming, and his attentions more 
direct and loathsome than ever. More than once I strove to 
speak with you on this hateful subject; but it was so shocking, 
and you were so fond of him, and I still had my fears ! At 
length, moved by compassion, you brought him to our house. 
Blind and devoted to him — with a blindness and devotion be- 
yond that which the noblest friendship would deserve, but which 
renders tenfold more hateful the dishonest and treacherous 
person upon whom it is thrown away — you command me to 
meet him with kindness — to tend his bed of sickness — to 
soothe his moments of sadness and despondency — to expose 
xyself to his insolence ! 

‘ Husband ! my soul revolts at this charge ! I have dis- 
bey od it and you ; and I must justify myself in this my dis- 
oedience. I must at length declare the truth. I have striven 
to do so in the preceding narrative. This narrative I began 
wuen you brought this false friend into our dwelling. He must 
oave it. You must command his departure. Do not think me 
moved by any unhappy or unbecoming prejudices against him. 
My antipathies have arisen solely from his presumption and 
msconduct. I esteemed him — nay, I even liked him — before. 
1 liked his taste for the arts, his amiable manners, his love of 
music and poetry, and all those graces of the superior mind and 
clucation, which dignify humanity, and indicate its probable 
tiestinies. But when he showed me how false he was to a 
iv^endship so free and confiding as was yours — w'hen he abused 
/ eyes and ear.'? with expressions unbecoming in him, and in- 


396 CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 

suiting and ungenerous to me — I loathed and spurned him 
While he is in your house I will strive and treat him civilly, 
hut do not tax me further. For your sake I have borne much ; 
for the sake of peace, and to avoid strife and crime, I have 
been silent — perhaps too long. The strange, improper letters 
of my mother, which I enclose, almost make me tremble to 
think that I have paid but too much deference to her opinion. 
But, in the expulsion of this miserable man from your dwelling, 
there needs no violence, there needs no crime ! A word will 
overwhelm him with shame. Remember, dear husband, that he is 
feeble and sick ; it is probable be has not long to live. Perform 
your painful duty privily, and with all the forbearance which is 
consistent with a proper firmness. In truth, he has done us no 
real harm. Let us remember that ! If anything, he has only 
made me love you the more, by showing so strongly how 
generous is the nature which he has so infamously abused. 
Once more, dear husband, do no violence. Let not our future 
days be embittered by any recollections of the present. Com- 
mand, compel his departure, and come home to me, and keep 
with me always. “ Your own true wife, 

“Julia Clifford.*' 

“ Tostcrvpt.—Y had closed this letter yesterday, thinking to 
send it to your office in the afternoon. I had hoped that there 
would be nothing more; — but last night, this madman — for 
such I must believe him to he — committed another outrage 
upon my person ! He has a second time seized me in his arms 
and endeavored to grasp me in his embrace. 0 husband ! — 
why, why do you thus expose me? Do you indeed love met 
I sometimes tremble with a fear lest you do not. But I dars 
not think so. Yet, if you do, why am I thus exposed — thus 
deserted — thus left to a companionship which is equally iDath- 
some to me and dishonoring to you ? I implore you to open 
your eyes — to believe me, and discard this false friend from 
your dwelling and your confidence. But, oh, be merciful, deai 
husband ! Strike no sudden blow ! Send him forth with scorn 
hut remember his feebleness, his family, and spare his life. 1 
send this by Emma. Let no one see the letters of my mothsr 
but burn them instantly. “Your own “ J ilia' 


* REVELATION — THE LETTER OF JULIA. 


397 


And this was the writing which had employed her time for 
days before the sad catastrophe ! And it was for this reason 
that she asked, with so much earnestness, if I had been to my 
cffice on the day when I drove Edgerton out into the woods for 
the adjustment of our issue ? No wonder that she was anxious 
at that moment. How much depended upon that simple and 
ordinary proceeding. Had I but gone that day to my office as 
usual ! 

There were no longer doubts. There could be none. There 
' a« now no mystery. It was all clear. The most ambiguous 
ortions of her conduct had been as easily and simply explained 
me rest. But it availed nothing ! The blow had fallen. I 
vas an accursed man — truly accursed, and miserably desolate. 

I still sat, stolid, seemingly, as the insensible chair which sus- 
tained me, when Kingsley came in. He took the papers from 
jiy unresisting hands. He read them in silence. I heard but 
ne sentence from his lips, and it came from them unconscious- 
y; — 

“ Poor, poor giP ; ’ 

I looked round and startci to my feet. The tears were on 
•lis manly checks. I rad ched none. My eyes were dry ! The 
fountains of tears seemed shut up, arid and thirsty. 

“ I must make atonement!” I exclaimei. “I must deliver 
myself up to justice !” 

“ This is madness,” said he, seizing my arm as I was about 
to leave the room. 

“ No : retribution only ! I have destroyed her. I must 
make the only atonement which is in my power. I must die I” 

“ What you design is none,” he said solemnly. “ Your 
death will atone nothing. It is by living only that you can 
atone!” 

“ How ?” 

“By repentance! This is the grand — the only sovereign 
atonement which the spirit of man can ever make. There is 
no other mode provided in nature. The laws, which would 
take your life, would deprive you of the means of atonement. 
This is due to God ; it can be performed only by living and 
suffering. Life is a duty because it is an ordeal. You must 


398 


CONFESSION, OR THE BLIND HEART. 


preserve life, as a sacred trust, for this reason. Even if you 
were a felon — one wilfully resolving and coldly executing crime 
— you were yet bound to preserve life ! Throw it away, aud 
though you comply with the demand of social laws, you forfeit 
the only chance of making atonement to those which are far 
superior. Rather pray that life may be spared you. It was 
\ with this merciful purpose that God not only permitted Cain to 
live, but commanded that none should slay him. You must live 
for this !” 

“ Yet I slew her 

He did with me as he pleased. Three days after beheld us 
on our way to the rich empire of Texas — its plains, rich but 
barren — un stocked, wild — running to waste with its tangled 
weeds — needing, imploring the vigorous hand of cultivation 
Even such, at that moment, was my heart ! Rich in fertile 
affections, yet gone to waste ; waiting, craving, praying for the 
hand of the cultivator ! — Yet who now was that cultivator] 

To this question the words of Kingsley, which were those of 
truth and wisdom, were a sufficient ansv/er ; and evermore an 
echo arose as from the bottom of my soul ; and my lips repeated 
it to my own ears only ; and but one word was spoken ; and 
that word ivas — “ atonement I” 


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beauty will long be the wonder and delight of many. * * * For 

years I have been hopefully and patiently waiting for somebody to col- 
lect these scattered and all but forgotten articles of Lamb’s. * * * 

Without doubt, all genuine admirers, all true lovers of the gentle, genial, 
delightful ‘ Elia,’ to whom almost every word of their favorite author’s 
inditing is ^ f arsed with pleasaunce,' will be mightily pleased with these 
productions of his inimitable pen, NOW first COLLECTED together.” 

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3 vols., crown 8vo, Cloth. $3.76. 

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“ The ability, diligence and faithfulness with which Michaud 
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views respecting this most romantic and wonderful period in the annals 
of the world.” 

This work has long been out of print, and its republication is oppor- 
tune. It narrates very fully and in a picturesque and interesting manner, 
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THE STANDARD HISTORY OF THE CRUSADES, 

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MirEBSIDE EDITION OF 

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In this edition the essays have been arranged in chronological order, 
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A very full index (55 pages) has been specially prepared for this 
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This New Edition of DTsraeli’s Works Comprises 

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A collection of literature which no judiciously selected library will 
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without. 

They are, in truth, a history of literature and of literary men, 
€-athered from the writings of centuries and from living authors, 
philosophic and learned, yet easy and fascinating. 

The Curiosities of Literature treat of everything curious in the 

literary kingdom. The formation of libraries, past and present, bibliomania, the 
oddities of authors, their labors, anecdotes, successes, failures, etc., containing a valuable 
mass of rare information. 

The Amenities of Literature “ is in a different strain, and treats of 

Language, the origin and growth of our own, the discovery and progress of the art of 
printing, the growth of literature, its patrons, followers and builders, and of other 
matters which have a broad and general bearing upon the subject in hand.” 

The Calamities and Quarrels of Authors “ contains an account of 

authors’ struggles, difficulties and poverty as a class * * * teaching them their failings 
and holding up the mirror for those who may be benefited by a view of the difficulties 
which beset authors.” 

Literary Character “ is probably the most searching and distinctive 

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genius.” 

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Reprinted from the Last London Edition, Revised 
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strikingly practical, and teach us not only the general rule, but the mode 
of applying it to solve particular cases. . . . Mr. Hallam’s 

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